


The Hessian of the Hollow

by jedisapphire



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Community: spn_j2_bigbang, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-02
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-02-04 12:32:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1779235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedisapphire/pseuds/jedisapphire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chance encounter leads Sam and Dean to a hunt for the legendary Headless Horseman. Things go wrong quickly. After an encounter with the ghost Dean loses first his sight and then his hearing, and Sam’s racing against the clock to end the Horseman and save his brother’s life. A mysterious man shows up, claiming to be Ichabod Crane and offering his help. Sam’s desperate enough to accept. But the ghost isn’t necessarily malicious, Ichabod has a plan of his own, and the world is reverting to the 1700s. Healing Dean doesn’t solve the other problems. When Dean’s back in action and Sam’s in danger, there’s only one way big brother is going to react.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Saw the Headless Horseman

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, thank you for reading. I hope you’ll enjoy the story!  
> This is my second round with the Big Bang and it’s been just as much fun this time as it was the first time. seleneheart is an incredible artist and I’ve loved seeing everything she did for this story. Please check out her gorgeous art post.
> 
> A big thank you to wendy for all her hard work running spn_j2_bigbang.
> 
> For help with the story, much gratitude goes to my very patient beta nygirl7of9, who was my sounding-board, put up with sudden plot changes, and was generally awesome, and to beaker84 who (as always) listened to my rambling about Sam and Dean and iconic ghosts and was responsible for one important plot twist.
> 
> And so apparently I have a thing for semi-historical ghosts from literature. Who’d’ve guessed? This time the unlucky writer is Washington Irving, and I so hope he’ll forgive me for taking his wonderful, creepy story and turning it into… well, this. Dear Mr. Irving, I’m terribly sorry. Please don’t haunt me.

 Sam studied the pool table, mentally measuring the angles. ****

He was good at pool. Not so much at poker – Dean always said his eyes gave everything away – but he was good at pool. He could even beat Dean, now.

This wasn’t about winning, though. This was about losing four games in a row to Dean, while Dean smirked and laughed at his fumbling just enough to make the other bar patrons take notice. This was about letting people think his height made him clumsy. This was about watching Dean goad them into joining and then into putting money on the table.

This was about –

Sam ducked his head, letting his hair fall into his eyes. He didn’t think what Dean called his startled puppy expression would work on this particular opponent, who was all masculine posturing and cocky attitude.

– aiming for an easy shot that anybody could make –

Sam eyed the striped ball. It was right next to the pocket; the gentlest tap would send it in.

– but missing it –

Sam hit the cue ball just a tiny bit off-centre, just a smidgeon too hard, just enough that it rolled past the striped ball and almost into the pocket. The other guy – Jed, Sam thought his name was – held his breath.

– and _accidentally_ –

The cue ball just missed the pocket, ricocheting off the edge and away to the opposite side of the table, neatly pocketing two striped balls on the way.

– pulling off a much harder one.

Sam sensed Dean’s sudden tension, and bit his lip. Had he gone too far? Just the wrong side of believable?

He looked up through his hair, eyes as bewildered as he could make them. Dean would have given him anything he wanted in response to that look, but Jed clearly wasn’t his pushover big brother, and he scowled at Sam.

“Was… was that OK?”

Jed’s scowl deepened, but all he said was, “Most incredible run of beginner’s luck I’ve ever seen.” He indicated Sam’s nearly empty beer bottle. “Next round’s on me.”

He was trying to get Sam drunk enough to screw up, probably.

Sam nodded. Another beer wouldn’t hurt; he’d only had one all evening. Jed went to get the drinks from the redheaded bartender – Dean had already got her phone number; Sam was pretty sure he’d be going back to their motel room alone – and Sam took the opportunity to exchange a quick glance with Dean. Sam just needed to clean up this round and then they could leave. No sense pissing people off more than they had to.

“Here,” Jed grunted, shoving a beer at Sam.

Sam took it, nodding his thanks, and took a long drink while he watched Jed pocket one ball and then muff an easy shot.

Dean smirked at that, but he didn’t say anything.

Sam made two shots. Then he deliberately missed an easy one to take the suspicious look off Jed’s face. The bar had gone quiet, half the patrons gathered around the pool table.

Sam felt Dean drawing closer behind him and hoped things wouldn’t get ugly.

He took another drink of beer, and regretted drinking so quickly when it was his turn again and his vision suddenly swam. It took him a good two minutes to line up his shot, and he barely made it. He missed the next one, and that wasn’t deliberate.

Sam heard a laugh, and relaxed as a couple of guys shook their heads and turned back to the bar. At least his drunkenness seemed to have defused some of the tension.

Coming to a silent agreement that it was time to go, Sam shook off the haze just enough to make his last shot and pocket the eight – which, luckily, was already lined up nicely enough that he didn’t have to pull off any ‘accidental’ ricochets. Sam didn’t think he could’ve done anyway.

“Huh,” Jed muttered, shaking his head. “All right kid, I’m done. Your luck holds out and I won’t be able to take my girl out for a month.”

Sam felt suddenly guilty. Jed was a real person, and he had a girl and maybe a dog and he had to take the girl out and buy treats for the dog and it would suck if the dog didn’t get treats because Sam hustled its human.

“Good game,” Dean said lightly, interrupting Sam’s thoughts. He scooped up the cash on the table and shoved it into Sam’s hands. “Nice night, huh, kid?”

“Hmmm… oh. Yeah. Nice night.” Sam lifted his bottle to his lips, drinking some more and grimacing at the bitterness.

“Yeah, I think you’ve had enough to drink,” Dean said, still keeping his tone casual. The look in his eyes said he meant it, and Sam let him take away the bottle. “You know, you’re not half bad, kid. I could give you some pointers sometime, maybe.”

“That’d be nice,” Sam agreed, wondering why they were having this bizarre conversation. Sure, they usually pretended to be strangers to each other when they were hustling, but that didn’t include fake small talk.

Besides, shouldn’t Dean be focusing on the redhead? She was practically hanging over the bar as she blatantly ogled Dean’s ass. It wasn’t like his brother to pass up on an opportunity like that… Unless there was something Sam had missed. Maybe the redhead was secretly a shifter?

It took a jab from the pool cue to make him look back at Dean.

“Umm, what, sorry?”

“Not from around here, are you?” Dean asked, rolling his eyes.

“Oh. No… no. I’m staying at –”

“Yeah, I don’t think you should be driving. C’mon, I’ll run you home.”

“Uh… OK. Thanks.”

Sam let Dean sling an arm around his shoulders and walk him out.

“ _Idiot_ ,” Dean hissed as soon as they were outside. “They all thought you were easy meat. You _trying_ to get yourself knifed in some back alley, Sammy?”

“You told me to play it innocent,” Sam protested, fumbling at the door handle for a moment until Dean rolled his eyes and opened it for him.

“Yeah,” Dean said, slamming the door. “But I meant adult innocent, _hunter_ innocent, not I’m-a-lost-puppy-take-me-home innocent.”

“I could’ve taken him.”

“You could’ve taken Jed, sure. What about his drinking buddies? One of them looked even bigger than _you_.” Dean shut his own door and started the engine. “They were planning to follow you and take the money back. Would’ve done it if I’d let you leave alone.”

Sam grinned. “Awww, Dean, you were _worried_ about me.”

“Not worried about _you_ , bitch. You just have all the money we won off them tonight.”

“Yeah, whatever. Jerk,” Sam muttered as they pulled out of the parking lot.

“Hey, Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re getting pretty good at hustling pool.”

Sam grinned at that, and kept smiling for the next five minutes. Then the already-shaky world startled to dissolve, and he just had time to reach for Dean before darkness descended.

 

 

* * *

  
“That son of a _bitch_ ,” Dean growled. “I’m going to rip his _lungs_ out.”

Sam, sitting with his head tucked under Dean’s chin and his arm held out to the nurse, was too woozy to say anything, but the doctor shot Dean a sympathetic glance.

“There are some real troublemakers in this town,” he said. “If you know who drugged your brother, I can help you file a complaint.”

“I don’t need the police. They’ll just waste time on crap about _evidence_ and _due process_. I’m going to hunt Jed down and rip his lungs out. And then I’m going to make him _eat_ them.”

“Don’t do that,” Sam protested drowsily. “Who’ll buy treats for his dog?”

Dean resisted the urge to hug Sam at that ridiculous but completely normal-for-Sammy statement, and settled instead for running a hand through his brother’s hair.

“We don’t even know if Jed has a dog,” he pointed out, though he knew it wouldn’t do any good to argue with Sam when he was like this. “But if he does, we’ll take it to a shelter. It’ll probably be happier there than with Jed anyway. I bet he doesn’t feed it right. If it’s lucky it might get adopted by some bleeding heart like you.”

“A no-kill shelter?” Sam asked anxiously.

“Sure, kiddo.”

Because Dean knew his brother well enough to know that, in his current drugged-up state, he’d burst into tears at the idea of even a hypothetical dog being put down.

Dean caught sight of the nurse’s expression, a mixture of amusement and _awww_ , and quickly wiped the fond smile off his face. She laughed at him, patting his shoulder before she undid the blood pressure cuff and released Sam’s arm.

Sam promptly latched on to Dean’s shirt.

“Yeah, OK,” Dean soothed. “I’ve got you. Everything’s going to be fine.” He looked at the doctor, who was now examining the clipboard the nurse had given him. “Right, doc?”

The doctor studied the clipboard a moment more before he nodded. “Looks like it. Keep an eye on him tonight, give him plenty of fluids and let him sleep it off. He should be fine in the morning, though there might be a little residual dizziness or disorientation for a few hours. If that doesn’t clear up by tomorrow night, bring him in again.”

“Sure, thanks, doc.”

“You need to fill in your forms,” the nurse said.

Dean nodded. When he’d come in with a half-conscious Sam clinging to him and explained – maybe a little hysterically; sue him, he only had one little brother – that Sammy had been drugged, the nurse at the front desk had waved them straight through after asking a couple of questions about allergies and medical history.

But it was too much to hope that they could avoid the paperwork altogether, and Dean settled down in one of the hard plastic chairs in the waiting room, Sam propped against his shoulder, with a bunch of forms and a pen.

He was halfway through when the clinic door opened again and two people stumbled in.

One of them, a young man around Sam’s age, was sobbing. His companion, the one holding him upright and hauling him to the nurse, looked a couple of years older. Dean’s gut clenched in sympathy.

“Easy, Fred,” the older guy said. “Calm down, OK, please calm down. We’re going to get this fixed. We’ll figure it out.”

“What’s wrong with him?” the duty nurse demanded.

“He can’t see.”

“You mean he’s blind?”

Fred let out another sob, and his friend patted his back. “No. No, at least – he was fine until this afternoon. He’s my cousin, we drove up to our grandfather’s place in Vermont for a few days and we’re on our way back now – anyway, we stopped for a break at a rest stop. We ended up napping a bit, with the heat, and – and when he woke up, he couldn’t see.”

“But you’re fine?”

“Yes, absolutely. Please, I need you to help him.”

Dean watched the nurse usher them inside, not even realizing that he’d wrapped a protective arm around Sam.

 

 

* * *

  
Sam was sleeping easily enough the next morning that Dean decided to leave him to rest while he did the breakfast run. The diner was just across the street, and going there on his own would let him make some discreet inquiries about where he could find Jed. Small town like this, everyone probably knew everyone, and everyone and their cousin would know the local troublemakers.

The waitress _did_ know Jed; judging by the way she pursed her lips at the mention of his name, she didn’t think much of him. Before she could say anything, she was interrupted by a voice asking about coffee and doughnuts.

It sounded vaguely familiar.

Dean turned, and saw the guy from the clinic. He looked pale and drawn, and Dean couldn’t help himself.

“Hey. Your cousin OK now?”

The guy stiffened, eyeing Dean with a wary frown. “You… How do you know about Fred?”

“I was in the clinic when you came in. I guess you were too worried to notice.” Dean could relate to that. When he’d first taken Sam in, with no idea just what that son of a bitch had slipped in his beer, he wouldn’t have batted an eyelid if all the Busty Asian Beauties models had been standing in a line by the nurses’ desk.

“Oh?”

The question was clear, and Dean answered. “My little brother.” His eyes darkened. “Some son of a bitch slipped something in his beer. We were just passing through, but now…”

“Man, tell me about it. I think they prey on non-locals in these towns because they won’t be around to press charges. Is he OK?”

“Sammy’s fine. Sleeping it off now, he’ll be back to his usual pain-in-the-ass self tomorrow.”

The guy nodded. “Fred’s still… Well. If you were there, I guess you know what the problem is. The doctors couldn’t find anything wrong with him. They said his visual cortex seems to have just… shut down. No idea why.”

“That sucks, man. So what are you going to do?”

“Take him to a specialist for a second opinion. I hope… God.” He turned away. “I wish it had happened to me. Fred’s just… It’s tearing him up. And this was such a great weekend – you know, our Pop’s getting along, and we’ve been wanting to spend some time with him and we _did_ , just like when we were kids, and now…”

“They have no idea what caused it?”

“None. We’ve been eating in all the same places, so I don’t even know… And he couldn’t possibly have hurt himself without my knowing about it. We’ve been in each other’s pockets all week.”

“I know how _that_ feels…” Dean said, senses tingling. There was no _reason_ for this to be their kind of thing, and there was probably an actual medical reason for Fred’s sudden blindness that had no supernatural angle at all, but he still felt like… “Maybe some sort of bug he caught on your drive? All these weird viruses going around these days…”

“I asked, but his blood work was clear. Man, this was just supposed to be a simply drive down from Vermont…” The guy sighed. “Anyway. You get back to your brother. And tell him not to take drinks from strangers.”

“Oh, yeah. I can guarantee we’ll be talking about that.” After a moment’s pause, Dean wrote his number on a napkin and handed it to his companion. “Just… I don’t know how long we’ll be around, depends on how Sammy feels, but… Look, my brother and I, we’re sort of… Well. This is what we do. You know…”

“Freelance medical advice?”

“Just… Looking into weird stuff.”

“Weird stuff? Man, you’re not one of those UFO people are you? Because I can promise you Fred didn’t get kidnapped by aliens –”

“No, that’s not what I meant. At all. Just… give me a call if you need anything. Name’s Dean.”

“Uh… Sure, Dean. Thanks.” The guy closed his fingers around the napkin. “I’m… Max. My name’s Max.”

 

 

* * *

  
Sam woke up with a splitting headache.

He tried opening his eyes, but shut them again promptly when the light filtering through the blinds made it worse.

“Hey. Too bright?” That was Dean’s voice. Sam heard movement, and a moment later Dean spoke again. “OK, Sammy, try now.”

Sam opened his eyes a crack. The room was darker, and he could just see the silhouette leaning over him.

“Dean?”

“Sleep well?” Without waiting for an answer, Dean palmed his forehead. “You don’t feel feverish.”

“I’m fine. Just…” Sam sat up, squeezing his eyes shut when the world spun around him. “Just a little…”

“The doctor said you might be a bit dizzy.” There was a hand on his shoulder, and Sam leaned gratefully into his big brother. “Take a minute, and then you can go brush your teeth. You’re not shaving yourself, and if you try I’m going to kick your ass.”

“What happened?” Sam mumbled.

Dean sighed. “See, that’s a long answer that involves you getting a lecture about _not being a freaking idiot_ , so we’re going to wait.”

“Just give it to me now. Miserable anyway.”

“Sammy.”

“’Msorry,” Sam said quietly, looking up at Dean through his hair.

There was a pause, and then Dean shook his head. “No. That isn’t how this works.”

Sam was startled, because in his experience that _was_ how it worked. Sometimes Dean was just an ass, but sometimes Sam _had_ done something stupid – like drinking beer given to him by a guy he was hustling – and even then Dean was supposed to _cave_ when Sam made eyes at him.

“Not this time,” Dean repeated. “This isn’t about you doing something to piss me off and trying to get out of trouble. This is about you not getting yourself murdered by the town drunk, and I’m not letting you off the hook just because you do the puppy dog thing. What were you _thinking_ , Sam?”

“I was thinking _you_ take drinks from strangers all the time.”

“I don’t take drinks from guys I’m hustling.” Dean grimaced and sat on the edge of the bed. “God, I should’ve stopped you. I didn’t want to make him suspicious – didn’t want to have to take him and his friends on. If I thought he really –”

“Dean. It’s not your fault.”

“Oh, no, it’s _your_ fault,” Dean said. “And you’re more than old enough to know better.” Then he added, so softly Sam could barely hear him, “But it was my watch.”

“Dean –”

“Don’t, Sam. Just be careful. If I hadn’t been there… You _have_ to be careful. Promise me.”

“All right. I’ll be careful.”

“Good. Now go brush your teeth and then you can eat some of the doughnuts your awesome big brother got you. And then we have a job.”

“A job?”

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s a job. You’ll have to figure it out. Research is your thing, not mine.”

 

 

* * *

  
Dean wasn’t really expecting anybody to call him, since they were between jobs, so it was a surprise when his phone rang while he was in the middle of bullying Sam into eating a second doughnut.

“Keep chewing,” Dean ordered, pulling out his phone. “Yeah?”

“Hi… Is that Dean? This is Max. From this morning.”

“Oh… Hey, Max.” Dean scooted over next to Sam, tilting the phone so his brother could hear too. “What’s up? Everything OK?”

“No… Well… This is going to sound crazy, but we need to talk. Umm, I think we’re in the same motel – you drive the black Impala? We’re in Room 215, can you…”

“Sure, we’re on our way.”

Sam was already on his feet by the time Dean ended the call. Dean kept an eye on him as they made their way up the stairs. Other than needing to clutch the banister occasionally, he seemed all right.

Max was waiting with the door open.

“You’re here.” He nodded at Sam. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“Thanks. Sorry, I really don’t remember you.”

Max let out a sharp laugh. “Why would you? You were probably completely out of it.” He stepped back to let them enter the room. “Look, I should warn you, this is going to sound completely crazy.”

“Don’t worry,” Dean said. “We specialize in crazy.” He gave Sam a light push towards a chair between the beds. “Sit before you fall, kiddo.”

Once Sam was safely seated, Dean turned his attention to the other person in the room – Fred. He was sitting on the edge of one of the beds, staring off into nothing. He hadn’t turned or acknowledged their presence in any way; he didn’t even react when Dean dragged another chair across the room to sit by the bed.

“Is he…”

“His hearing’s gone.” Max sounded like he was at the end of his rope. “I don’t – I have absolutely no idea what happened. He was just waking up when I got back from the diner with breakfast, and I think it took him a couple of seconds to figure it out. Then he started panicking and… Well, I just got him calmed down. But… God, I can’t believe… Just… Wait a moment.”

Max crouched in front of Fred and tapped his shoulder. That must have been some sort of signal, because Fred promptly raised his head.

“Are they here?” he asked, too loudly.

Max tapped his shoulder again.

“I’ve got something to say,” Fred said, voice harsh and strident. “I told Max yesterday and he thought I was insane, but I think we can rule _that_ out. I know who’s doing this to me.” He stopped for a moment, like he was giving them a chance to digest that, and then went on. “A couple of nights ago, Max and I stopped at this sort of colonial place on the highway. Cheap but had all those old-fashioned trimmings, you know the kind I mean? Max had been driving, so he was tired – out like a light and he slept for like fifteen hours straight. I was up early, because I’d been dozing in the car. I thought Max looked like he needed sleep, so I went for a drive.”

He stopped again, voice a little hoarse. Dean wondered if he’d woken up screaming that morning.

Max pushed a bottle of water into his cousin’s hand. Fred smiled up at him. Sam was wearing a ridiculously sappy expression as he watched them, and Dean would have rolled his eyes at him if Max hadn’t been around.

“I drove for… I don’t know, an hour, maybe. I turned onto this smaller road, figured it might lead to one of those lookout points or something. You know, something fun to see. I knew Max wouldn’t be awake yet – he would’ve called me – so I figured I had time. But then this fog started coming down and I turned around. I heard a scream, someone sounding terrified, and a man – I think it was a man – darted in front of the car. I could barely see him, but I’m pretty sure I didn’t hit him.” Fred drew a long breath and took another drink of water. “I stopped, anyway, and called out, in case he’d fallen or – just in case. I didn’t hear _him_ again, but a moment later I heard hooves and then – and then he was there, right in front of me, and I couldn’t look aside or turn away because it was like there was some kind of spell.”

Max laid a hand on Fred’s shoulder. Fred leaned back into it for a moment before he bent forward again, sightless gaze fixed somewhere between Sam and Dean, and said, “ _I saw the Headless Horseman._ ”

**  
**


	2. Sammy, I'm Cold

“This place is  _sweet_ ,” Dean said happily, looking around the room.   
  
The beds were big and piled with mounds of pillows, the curtains were thick enough that random rays of sunlight wouldn’t wake them in the morning – and that was an important consideration when your job frequently involved late-night grave desecration – and, most importantly, the power outlets were all the way across the room from the beds, meaning Sam’s insomniac clickety-clickety-clickety wouldn’t keep Dean up all night.  
  
Sam dropped his duffel on his bed and glanced at Dean. “I think this is even the same room Max and Fred had.”  
  
“Awesome. So if any horsemen, headless or otherwise, come plunging through that wall –”  
  
“He saw it on the  _road_ like fifty miles away, Dean.”  
  
“Did you find any other cases?”  
  
“So  _now_ you want to hear about my research?”  
  
Sam sounded pissed enough that Dean knew he wasn’t faking it. He made a face. “Come on, Sammy. Don’t be a bitch.”  
  
“I tried to tell you on the drive over.”  
  
“Yeah, but –”  
  
“ _Twice._ ”  
  
“Oh, come on, man. Look, the first time was when  _Ride the Lightning_ was playing and the second time there was that car with the college chicks – did you not see them? And the blonde was yelling her number at me through the window.”  
  
Sam rolled his eyes and pulled out his laptop, stalking away to the corner to plug it in. Dean followed.  
  
“OK, look, I’m paying attention now.” He sat across the table, pulled out his phone, his other phone, and his  _other_ other phone and shoved them all at Sam. “You can keep those. See? This is me paying attention. Now tell me what you found out.”  
  
Sam glared a moment more, but then he sat down, put his notes on top of the keyboard, and tilted the screen so Dean could see.   
  
“Fred’s isn’t the only case,” Sam said. “I checked out all the medical databases. There have been four other incidents that I could find, all in the last fifteen years, all within a fifty-mile radius of Sleepy Hollow.”  
  
“So it really is the Headless Horseman?”  
  
“It could be. Nobody else has reported  _seeing_ a rider, so that part could just be Fred’s imagination, but there’s definitely something. Of course, if it  _is_ the Headless Horseman, we have no idea why he waited this long to start going after people.”  
  
“He went after Ichabod Crane.”  
  
Sam waved a dismissive hand. “Ichabod Crane scared himself to death. And even if the Horseman was involved, that was just one person, one time, years ago. Why would he suddenly wake up again now?”  
  
“What about the other cases?”  
  
“Right.” Sam looked at his notes. “The first one we have on record is Cody Baker. Fifteen years ago, he was thirty at the time. He was out walking the dog, fog came down suddenly, he couldn’t see where he was going, took a spill, and hit his head. Had it checked out at the local clinic – according to their records, he was mildly concussed, but not injured in any other way. Went home and was fine all day, but he woke up the next morning completely blind.”  
  
“And the doctors couldn’t figure anything out?”  
  
“No. His hearing went the next day, and the day after that his ability to speak. Doctors thought it might be some sort of delayed reaction to his fall, maybe he’d taken brain damage that hadn’t manifested right away. His wife engaged a therapist for him. He worked with her for two weeks and then disappeared one night. They launched a manhunt and two days later they found his body, decapitated.” Sam swallowed, looking a little queasy. “They never found his head.”  
  
“And they never caught anyone for the murder?”  
  
Sam shook his head.  
  
“Who else?” Dean asked.  
  
“A couple of years after Baker, a guy called Abe Goldberg. Forty-two. Driving home from work, caught in fog. He waited it out in his car and then drove home. No injury of any kind, he didn’t even stub his toe… But, well, same thing.”  
  
“He still alive?”  
  
“His son found him in the bathtub a month later. Jury ruled an accidental overdose of prescription medication.” Sam flipped over a page. “Six years ago, Alexander Barnes, twenty-three. He and his girlfriend were on their way back from a party when the fog came down.  _She_ was fine.  _He_ … Same thing. Threw himself off the roof of their house. He lived fourteen days on a ventilator before his family decided to pull the plug.”  
  
“Damn,” Dean breathed, gaze flickering to Sam and away.  
  
“Last one – well, last one until Fred – was last year. A… hitchhiker, apparently, known only as Todd. He got a ride with a woman driving to New York, they got caught in fog and waited it out, but apparently he felt a little queasy so she dropped him off at a hospital and then went on her way. He panicked when he woke up blind and had to be repeatedly sedated; by the time it all wore off he’d lost the ability to speak. No ID, so they never found out his last name. They released him to Social Services and he stayed at a shelter for… special cases. Found knifed in the kitchen. They couldn’t pin it on anyone though they had a couple of suspects.”  
  
“And you couldn’t find anything before the Cody guy?”  
  
“Nothing… So it’s possible he did something to… I don’t know. To wake the ghost up?”  
  
“Maybe. We’ll figure it out.” Dean thought of Fred, and of Max’s voice trembling on the phone earlier when he’d told Dean his cousin had gone mute. “We  _will_ figure it out.”  
  
He was being a girl, but this was personal now, more personal than their cases usually were. If they hadn’t found it the way they had, if Max and Fred hadn’t come to his notice while he’d been filling out a hospital form with a half-conscious Sam making little snuffling sounds into his shirt, if Fred hadn’t been just the right age for Dean to look at him and feel his insides twist with fear for his baby brother, it might have been different.  
  
Sam just nodded at him, though Dean knew he didn’t entirely get it.  
  
“We’re meeting Cody Baker’s wife first. Come on, it’ll take us an hour to get there.”

* * *

Ashley Baker was now Ashley Harris, mother of three. She wasn’t particularly happy to see Agent Smith and Agent Wesson, and she didn’t know why the FBI wanted to reopen a fifteen-year-old investigation anyway.  
  
Dean rolled his eyes at Sam behind her back, and Sam grinned and let him handle it.  
  
“I understand you don’t want to rake up the past,” Dean said in a matter-of-fact voice. She looked like the kind of woman who’d rather have that than sympathetic understanding. “And we’re not going to take a lot of your time. We just need to make sure nothing’s happened since then that could give us any clue to who killed your husband.”  
  
“I don’t know what you expect me to say,” she snapped, running a hand through her short, platinum blonde hair. “If I’d remembered anything, don’t you think I would have called the cops?”  
  
“Maybe something that didn’t seem important?” Dean suggested. “Please, just go over the events of that day with us, and then we’ll leave you alone.”  
  
She sighed, waving them into chairs at the kitchen table. “You have half an hour. Then I need to take my daughter to her piano lessons.”  
  
Dean waited for Sam to sit before tugging his chair closer to his brother’s and dropping into it. “So… Maybe we should start with the details of his… accident? It’s possible it might be related… I understand Mr. Baker was walking the dog?”  
  
“He always did. It was the morning routine, he and Rusty would go out, they’d be back in time for breakfast and then we – Cody and I – would both go to work. He was late. I wasn’t too worried. Rusty was young and curious and always getting his nose in stuff. I left Cody a note and went to work.”  
  
“And you next heard from him…”  
  
“He called from the clinic. I had one meeting I absolutely couldn’t miss, and he was going to stay for some tests, so as soon as that was over I went to the clinic to pick him up. They said he was mildly concussed but the doctor thought he’d be fine. We went home, he seemed all right, so I didn’t think much of it. We had lunch, watched some bad movie, I don’t even remember which one. He was fine by dinnertime and we went to bed early, we both had work the next day.”  
  
“Was there any specific place Mr. Baker liked to go when he walked the dog?” Sam asked.  
  
“Does it matter?”  
  
“You never know what might be important.”  
  
“He just… Sort of walked around. We had this lovely old place, got it cheap because it was a fixer-upper. Few miles out of town, and it was right next to the cemetery – you know, the one all the tourists love.”  
  
“The Old Dutch Church burying ground?” Sam asked.  
  
“That’s the one. I thought it was a little creepy, but Cody liked to walk through it – and Rusty didn’t care, of course, so sometimes they went there. It was about half a mile from our house, and they’d take a longer loop back. Other times they’d go through the woods and over the creek.”  
  
“Do you know where Mr. Baker went that day?”  
  
“I don’t know. With everything else that happened I never asked him.”  
  
“Did he…” Dean studied her for a moment, nodded and resumed. “Did he mention seeing anything unusual on his walk that day?”  
  
“Unusual?”  
  
“He may have been witness to a crime,” Sam suggested. “Something that made someone want to get him out of the way.”  
  
“Oh. Well… No, not that I remember. Nothing.”  
  
But there was something in her voice – she was lying.  
  
Dean glanced at Sam. They’d gotten as far as cool professionalism could take them. Now it was Sam’s job to get the rest of the story.  
  
“Are you sure?” Sam said gently. “It might not even have seemed important at the time –”  
  
“ _Yes._ ”  
  
“Or, I don’t know, maybe he saw something but didn’t understand, so it might have sounded crazy.”  
  
“No,” Ashley said, but she sounded less emphatic about it this time.  
  
Dean suppressed a grin.  _Yahtzee._  
  
“Could you maybe just think about it?” Sam coaxed. “He was clearly under a lot of stress so it might not have made sense, but…”  
  
Ashley sighed. “Fine. I don’t know how you guessed, but you’re right. There was… It sounds completely crazy, and I  _couldn’t_ tell anyone. Cody was barely holding it together as it was, with losing his sight and hearing and – well – I didn’t want them to put him in an institution. And then it didn’t matter.”  
  
“What did he say?”  
  
“He said he saw a ghost.”

* * *

“I guess it’s possible.”   
  
Sam took the beer Dean handed him. Ever since the incident with Jed, Dean had implemented a  _Big brother gets the drinks_  rule. He didn’t know how long Sam would let him get away with it, but for the moment he seemed willing to play along.  
  
“What’s possible?” Dean asked, flipping his chair and sitting astride it.  
  
“What Ashley said.” He made a cross on a map he’d printed out, turning it to show Dean. “She was right about their old place being close enough to the Headless Horseman’s cemetery. Maybe he has a grave there and her husband… Disturbed it, somehow. Woke him up.”  
  
“Really? You think the guy would have been into  _grave desecration_?”  
  
“He might not have known. It could’ve been an accident. Maybe he was walking through the cemetery and just… tripped over something, or found something. He might not even have realized he woke the ghost.”  
  
“And it woke up and saw him and went for him. Could be. But… Have we got any idea which one  _is_ the Headless Horseman’s grave? A name, or the date he died,  _anything_?”  
  
“He was allegedly a Hessian from the Revolutionary War, so… sometime then? But it might not be a marked grave. I doubt Cody Baker would’ve interfered with one of those. Maybe he got killed in the war and they just buried him in an unmarked grave. Might’ve done that, especially if he was an enemy soldier and they didn’t know his name.”  
  
Dean nodded. “Might not even be  _inside_ the present boundary of the cemetery.”  
  
“That’s true. I mean, according to the story, he haunts it, but he might be just along the wall outside, or across the street. And, I mean, maybe it wasn’t even a supernatural fog that first time. It might just have been normal fog.”  
  
“Then when he took a fall he accidentally disturbed the Hessian’s grave.”  
  
Dean grinned at Sam, and Sam smiled back the way he did when things made sense to his geek mind. They clinked their beer bottles together, but before either of them could drink they heard a voice off to the left.  
  
“Well, well. Look who we have here.”  
  
He had a feeling he’d heard that voice before, but it wasn’t until Dean looked up and saw the person standing there that a scowl came over his face.  
  
“Jed.”  
  
“Well, well,” the man said again, with an unpleasant smile. “What are you doing with this kid?”  
  
“We were going the same way,” Dean said coolly. “So we decided to ride together. Easier on him than taking the bus.”  
  
“Thought you’d get yourself a boy toy? Little innocent like that, must’ve been irresistible. And easy.”  
  
Sam stiffened, and Dean took an angry step forward.  
  
“You ever think about sharing?” Jed drawled.  
  
Dean’s fist was out before he even knew he’d moved, and then Jed was on the ground, clutching his jaw and lying in the wreckage of one of the chairs.  
  
“Man,” he grunted. “Lighten up.”  
  
Dean tensed, ready to fling himself on Jed and pummel his face until he stopped talking, because suddenly it all made a horrible kind of sense. He’d assumed the son of a bitch had drugged Sam just to beat him up and get his money back, maybe snatch Sam’s wallet in the process, but this –  
  
 _This –_  
  
And Sammy, who despite being big as a house and strong as an ox had all the unsuspecting innocence of the kid he still sometimes was –  
  
“Dean.” Sam was holding him back, and  _damn_ the kid was strong. Dean was stronger, though, because that son of a bitch had threatened his baby brother and –  
  
“ _Dean_ ,” Sam said firmly. “Dean, it’s OK. I’m fine. He didn’t touch me. And I can take care of myself, Dean. I’m not drugged now, and if he lays a hand on me he’ll know exactly how well I can take care of myself.”  
  
“He lays a hand on you,” Dean growled, “I’ll kill him.”  
  
Sam rolled his eyes, but he let Dean get between him and Jed as the other man got to his feet.  
  
“Who told you where to find us?” Dean demanded.  
  
“Kristie – you remember her? She gave you her number, and you were making nice with her until you decided to take  _this one_  home instead. Said she’d seen you drive past the bar in the morning, still with him in the passenger seat. Told me which direction you’d gone.”  
  
“You’ve been  _following_ us?” Sam asked.  
  
“I asked at gas stations along the way. Two guys in a muscle car, that doesn’t go unnoticed.” Jed pointed at Sam. “Kid’s got something of mine. I want it back, and maybe a little  _compensation_  for making me drive all this way, and then we can part as friends. It’s as good a deal as he could ever get. You didn’t take anything from me. I’ll leave you alone.”  
  
“Neither did he,” snarled Dean. “You  _touch_ him and I’ll –”  
  
“Dean,” Sam interrupted. “It’s OK.”  
  
“What, are you crazy? This guy tried to –”  
  
“I know.” Sam nodded at Jed. “I’m really not sorry about that night. I might’ve been willing to return your money, but you tried to drug me. You’re an idiot.”   
  
He said it all in the same reasonable tone he used to talk to witnesses, and Dean had to repress a sudden urge to laugh. Jed looked like he didn’t know whether to go for furious or bewildered.   
  
“Come on, Dean.”  
  
“But I haven’t kicked his ass yet,” Dean protested when Sam tried to pull him away.  
  
“Dean. We don’t have time for this. We can’t get involved with the police. We know he’s around. I’ll be careful, and he’s like half my size. Come  _on_.”

* * *

“That’s weird,” Sam said, frowning down at his laptop.  
  
“What? Dude, I haven’t been near the thing, so if it’s stuck or got some virus then –”  
  
“No, the laptop’s fine. The power socket’s vanished.”  
  
“What?” Dean dropped the TV remote to the bedside table and pushed himself to his feet. “Sammy, if this is some stupid trick to keep me from enjoying these mattresses –”  
  
“No, I’m serious, Dean!”  
  
Sam sounded more than a little freaked, and Dean strode quickly across the room. “What’s the matter, princess?”  
  
“I left my laptop plugged in and now the  _socket’s_ disappeared. It’s gone, Dean.”  
  
Dean bent to look.  
  
Sam was right. His laptop  _had_ been plugged in earlier, Dean remembered that too. And now the power cord was looped neatly around the adaptor and on the table, and the wall socket had… vanished. The wall was smooth, untouched wood panelling that looked like it had never even seen a nail.  
  
“Huh.” Dean bent and felt at the wall. It was solid. “You think the Horseman could’ve Freaky Fridayed our room?”  
  
“We don’t even know if it  _is_ the Hessian at all.” At the look Dean shot him, Sam shrugged. “Maybe the deaths are, but this doesn’t make sense, Dean. Why would he do that?”  
  
“Why would he do any of this? Ghosts killing people, I get, but he’s not killing them.”  
  
“They all died.”  
  
“And those could just have been random accidents or suicide or whatever.”  
  
“Cody Baker said he saw the Horseman and he was decapitated.”  
  
“Yeah, but… Look, just plug the damn laptop in somewhere else and let’s…  _Sam_.” Dean clutched at Sam’s arm.  
  
“Dude!  _What?_ ”  
  
“The remote.” Dean pointed at the bedside table where it had been. “I put it down there, like, a minute ago. And…” His gaze swivelled around to the television set he’d been about to turn on. “The TV’s gone too.”  
  
Sam snatched up his laptop and held it protectively to his chest. “We need another motel.”  
  
“Screw that. We can sleep in the Impala. Come on.”  
  
They grabbed their bags and hurried out of the room, the motel changing and shifting around them as they did. Dean went for the stairs, not wanting to risk the elevator disappearing with them inside it. He hurtled down, Sam behind him, and practically ran out the door.  
  
They turned to look back when they were outside.   
  
It was the same, and different. When they’d come in it had been old-fashioned, and a little decayed. The paint had been peeling in places, the curtains had been just the wrong side of well-used. The cobbles on the path leading up to the main entrance had been worn by age and use.  
  
It was the same paint and the same curtains, but now they were brand new, walls bright, curtains fresh and wafting a faint smell of lavender as they fluttered in the breeze, the cobbles still with some hard, sharp edges.  
  
The Impala was still in the lot.  
  
They dived into it, and Dean barely waited to hear Sam’s door slam before he put it in gear and peeled out.  
  
The motel had been the only building in a three-mile radius, but as they drove the landscape changed. There were storefronts and a couple of little stone-and-brick cottages and a church and an old-fashioned school. Dean thought he saw people in the windows, but they didn’t come out.  
  
Then there was a figure on the street in front of them.  
  
“Dean, it’s the guy from the bar –”  
  
“Yeah, I know,” Dean grunted, swerving hard to avoid the figure. It was one of Jed’s friends. Dean hadn’t bothered to find out their names. He’d probably come up with Jed, and it had never occurred to Dean that the son of a bitch might have tracked them to the motel. He was going to have to find Jed and put the fear of Dean Winchester into him.  
  
“Wait!” the guy yelled, holding out a hand.  
  
Dean ignored him.  
  
“Dean!” Sam said, turning to look.  
  
Dean gritted his teeth. Was Sam out of his freaking  _mind_? This was the guy who’d probably helped Jed _drug_ him, who might’ve been planning to –  
  
Dean didn’t let himself finish the thought, because then he’d be out of the car and pounding some sense into the sons of bitches who thought they could target Dean’s baby brother.  
  
“This isn’t the time to be a hippie, Sam,” he snapped.  
  
A sign appeared off to the left to tell him they were leaving the town of High Falls and – what the  _hell_? What town of High Falls? There had been nothing here, not even ruins, just a lone motel a mile off the highway.  
  
Sam was twisted in his seat, staring behind them.  
  
“Dean –”  
  
“Shut up, Sam.”  
  
“Dean,  _please_. Stop!”  
  
Dean drove another fifty yards just to prove he wasn’t a pushover who gave in to his brother’s every whim, and then he braked. “ _What_ , Sammy?”  
  
Sam said nothing, but his eyes were wide with horror.  
  
Dean turned to look.  
  
The guy was standing just level with the sign for the town limits, hands held out in front of him as though he was pushing against some invisible barrier. His mouth was moving like he was screaming, but Dean couldn’t hear anything –  
  
And then the storefronts began to fade, piece by piece, like a disappearing jigsaw puzzle.  
  
Jed’s friend flickered out of existence for a second, and then back.  
  
“Oh God,” Sam gasped, reaching for the door handle.   
  
“Sam!” Dean protested. “What the hell are you doing? We don’t know what’s going on!”  
  
He reached for Sam, just too late. Sam was out of the car, and Dean got out after him. Even outside the car, he couldn’t hear the guy screaming, though he obviously was. “Get back inside, moron!”  
  
“Dean, we have to help him.”  
  
Sam took a step forward –  
  
And all of a sudden everything was obscured in whiteness.

* * *

The fog rose like soup, almost solid. Sam couldn’t see an inch. He felt the dampness in his lungs and reached automatically to where he’d last seen his brother.  
  
“Dean?” he called – softly, just in case someone else was listening.  
  
“Sam!”  
  
“Dean.” He took a step in the direction of the voice, and a moment later his fingers were brushing Dean’s jacket. “ _Dean._ ”  
  
“Yeah.” Even this close, Dean was just an indistinct shadow in front of Sam’s face. Sam felt a hand on his shoulder, and then it slid down his arm to squeeze his wrist and then clutch his hand. “Don’t get any ideas,” Dean said, when Sam snickered. “We can’t afford to get separated in this thing, that’s all.” He hesitated. “You’re the one with a GPS tracker in your head, which way’s the Impala?”  
  
Sam thought for a moment, and then tugged Dean to his right. “That way.”  
  
He took a couple of cautious steps, his free hand held out in front of him – and there,  _there_ was the familiar cool metal. He pulled Dean forward, and Dean squeezed his hand tighter for a moment before releasing it.  
  
“Good job, Sammy. Get in.”  
  
Sam felt his way around to the passenger side, sliding in just as Dean scrambled into the driver’s seat.  
  
They shifted together almost without meaning to, because they couldn’t drive anywhere when they couldn’t see. They could just sit –  
  
“Dean,” Sam whispered, more out of habit than anything else.  
  
– shoulder-to-shoulder in the Impala –  
  
“We just need to stay put and wait for it to lift,” Dean said, and Sam could tell he was trying to sound more confident than he felt.  
  
– waiting –   
  
Something moved in the mist, and Sam’s breath caught.  
  
– for what they knew was coming.  
  
And there in front of them, indistinct, wreathed in fog, was a tall figure on a shadowy horse.  
  
“No,” Sam gasped, and then the Horseman was riding towards them, and they ducked down together, tucking themselves under the dashboard, and the air was full of screaming and thundering hooves.  
  
And then there was silence.  
  
“Dean.”  
  
“Sam,” Dean gasped, and something in his brother’s voice made Sam turn sharply.  
  
“Dean?”  
  
“Sammy, he touched me. He… He rode through, and he touched me.”  
  
“ _Dean._ ”  
  
“Sammy, I’m cold.”


	3. We Can Get Out of This Place

  **  
**

Dean felt oddly disconnected from himself. The mist was still swirling around the Impala, and he and Sam were still crouched in the footwell. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. An hour, maybe. His eyelids were getting heavy, but he resolutely fought the urge to sleep.

Despite the fact that he was now wearing Sam’s jacket on top of his own, and had Sam’s arm around his shoulders, he was cold. It felt like the chill was seeping into his bones.

“I’ve got you,” Sam whispered. “I’ve got this. We’re going to fix it.”

Dean sighed. He didn’t want to disagree, and Sam was a kickass hunter – if anyone could sort this out, it would be Sam. Dean himself was going to be next to useless soon –

“Shut up,” Sam murmured.

“Didn’t say anything.”

“I can hear you thinking.” Sam’s voice had the tiniest hint of a tremor – enough to tell Dean he was scared but trying to hide it. “We’re going to waste the ghost, Dean. He’s not going to get you.” Sam’s arm around his shoulders tightened. “Nobody’s going to get you.”

“I’m tired, Sammy.”

Sam turned to face him. “I know. Just… Stay awake as long as you can, OK? And then go to sleep if you need to. It’s all right.”

“Sammy –”

“It’s OK, Dean. It’s just going to be temporary. I’m going to find that ghost and end it.”

Dean hardly dared to blink. He’d never really thought about _looking_ at things before – maybe a hot girl in a short skirt, or a really awesome hamburger – but not at the things that mattered. Sam was a voice and a sometimes-hulking presence at his side and it wasn’t like Dean particularly needed to see him to know he was there.

“Sammy?”

“Yeah?”

“You know the puppy-dog thing isn’t going to work if I can’t see you, right?”

“ _Dean._ ”

Sam turned away, but not before Dean saw the glimmer of tears in his eyes. He felt like a heel, making Sam feel worse than he was already, but he needed to know that he’d still be Sam’s big brother –

“Doesn’t matter, jerk,” Sam said at last, voice rough. “You’ve never _really_ fallen for the eyes. You just can’t bear to say no to me.”

“Just a matter of time before I can’t hear. Or speak.”

Sam looked back at him, cracking a tiny smile, and gently disengaged the fist Dean had clenched in his shirt.

“Sammy?”

“Close your eyes.”

Dean obeyed, turning his face into Sam’s shoulder. Sam uncurled Dean’s fingers gently, and then he felt a light fingertip tracing something into his palm. Letters.

_S – A – M_

Dean couldn’t hold back a smile. “That’s going to be slow.”

“It’s only going to be temporary.”

And just like that, Dean felt better.

 

 

* * *

  
Dean was awake when the fog finally lifted. They got out, and everything was normal again. The town had vanished, Jed’s friend was nowhere in sight, and there was just one slightly dilapidated old building in an otherwise barren landscape.

“So you want to go back to the motel?” Dean asked.

Sam shook his head. “Not until we know what’s going on. We can go there in the morning to shower and whatever, but we’re sleeping in the Impala.”

Dean nodded. “Get in, bitch. I’m driving.”

Dean didn’t drive far – he still had Sam’s jacket _and_ his own, and he was still cold, and his exhaustion was catching up with him. He got them off the road into a clearing hidden by trees, and stopped, and looked at Sam.

And although he was tired beyond anything he’d ever felt before, he couldn’t bear to shut his eyes.

“You need a blanket?” Sam asked.

“Yeah – I’ll –”

“Stay here. I’ll go.”

Sam was back in less than a minute with one of the spare blankets they kept in the trunk. He started to drape it around Dean, but Dean batted his hands away.

“Dude. I’m not a freaking invalid. I can do it.”

“OK,” Sam said quietly, backing off. “Just… make sure you stay warm.”

“Sam, stop it.”

“Sorry.”

“Sam!” Dean snapped.

He didn’t want this, didn’t want to be treated like something fragile that could break at any moment. He was Sam’s big brother. He took care of Sam. He didn’t need Sam to take care of him and he didn’t want to be the thing Sam had to worry about when he should be focusing on the case.

“Just… tell me what to do, Dean.”

And Sam’s voice told Dean everything. He was terrified and putting a brave face on it, terrified of losing his brother to the Hessian of the Hollow.

“Look at me,” Dean ordered.

Sam’s eyes met his.

“I trust what’s in here.” Dean reached out to tap the side of Sam’s head lightly. “You might be an emo brat, but you’re a smart emo brat and you’re going to figure it out. Right?”

Sam tried to smile and didn’t quite make it. But his voice was steady when he said, “I’m going to figure this out.”

“That’s my boy.”

Sam still wasn’t smiling, but he was puppy-dogging Dean for all he was worth, and Dean figured that would do. It was a more characteristic Sammy expression anyway.

“Dean?”

“Good night, kiddo.”

Dean let his head rest on the windowpane and closed his eyes.

 

 

* * *

  
Dean woke up with a start. After a moment of disorientation the memories of the previous day came crashing back and –

Dean groaned, turning away to hide his face. For once he would have preferred the disorientation.

“Dean?”

“Go away,” Dean mumbled, not opening his eyes.

“Dean, come on,” Sam said softly.

A hand brushed through Dean’s hair. Dean leaned up into it, and realized, with another small start, that the thing he was hiding his face in wasn’t leather. It smelled of gunpowder and Sam’s cologne.

“Oh, God,” Dean moaned. “Am I…?”

“You did it completely on your own.” Sam sounded amused. “I woke up and you were practically _cuddling_ me.”

“God, shut _up_.”

“It’s OK, Dean. It’s… You needed it. It’s fine.” Sam was forcing his head up. Dean didn’t want to open his eyes, didn’t want to know he couldn’t see. “Dean, open your eyes.”

“No.”

“Dean, please.”

“ _No._ ”

“Dean, come on. It doesn’t matter, we’ll fix it. You know we will. But we have to know what we’re dealing with.”

“Sam.”

“I’m here.”

Dean opened his eyes to darkness.

“Sammy…”

“Yeah.”

“Sammy, I can’t – I can’t –”

And then Sam’s arms were around him, and his face was buried in Sam’s shoulder, eyes squeezed shut again.

“It’s OK.”

“I can’t do anything. I can’t hunt –”

“Dean –”

“ _Sammy._ ”

“I’m here,” Sam promised.

“What if Jed comes after you? I can’t watch out for you –”

“I can watch out for both of us. It’s OK, Dean. You taught me how to kick ass. I can kick his ass if I have to.”

“Sure you know _how_. But you _won’t_.” Dean shook his head. “Built like a tree and you’re a freaking _hippie_. All that muscle is wasted, dude. _Wasted._ ” He pulled back a little, opening his eyes again. “So what’s the plan?”

“First we’re going to go to the motel – if it’s still normal – and get cleaned up and get some breakfast. Then we’re going to the cemetery to look up their burial records.”

 

 

* * *

  
Getting dressed was a bitch. Dean did his buttons up wrong three times before Sam finally told him to stop being a macho jerk and let him help. Dean glared in the general direction of Sam’s voice, but when he felt hands buttoning up his shirt he didn’t push them off.

“I had a word with the lady at the front desk,” Sam said, “while you were in the shower.”

Huh. Sam had left him by himself? That didn’t seem likely… Unless Sam had just phoned the front desk.

Dean hadn’t noticed, earlier, where the phone extension had been, and he wished he could look around to spot it now.

“It’s next to your bed,” Sam said, guessing his thoughts. “Where you’re not sleeping until we’ve figured this out.”

“Bed’s not going to disappear,” Dean pointed out.

“Jed’s friend did.”

“What?”

“She said – the lady at the desk, I mean – she said she didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary last night. But Jed and his friend checked in yesterday. They left –”

“Came after us.”

“Probably. They left, and Jed stayed gone, but his friend came back soon after we did. Jed came in earlier this morning looking for him, and he seems to be missing. No sign of a struggle in his room, nothing to indicate where he might have gone and if he went willingly.”

“Jed know we’re here?”

“He knows we’re staying here, but I doubt he knows we’re here right this minute.”

Jed knew they were staying here.

Jed was after _Sammy_. Jed was after Sammy and Dean couldn’t do squat to stop him because he couldn’t see, and soon _all_ his senses were going to shut down, and –

“Calm down, Dean.”

“If he comes after you –”

“ _Dean._ Have you _seen_ me lately? I can take him down.”

“Not if he drugs you.”

“God, you’re never going to let me forget that, are you? That was a stupid mistake. I should’ve been paying more attention and I shouldn’t have taken a drink from a man I was hustling. It won’t happen again.”

“Uh-huh.” Dean wasn’t convinced – Sam was Sam, and Sam was a trusting kid, and there wasn’t a whole lot he could do about that. “You have any ideas for breakfast?”

“We don’t have a lot of time. We should get to the cemetery. I figured we’d just grab some doughnuts on the way.”

Doughnuts. Doughnuts that Dean could eat with his fingers and didn’t really need to see to get in his mouth.

Sam was awesome.

He said so, and Sam laughed a little and helped him with his jacket.

Sam kept a guiding arm around his shoulders as they left the room. It would have been casual except that they didn’t _do_ that. But at least nobody was staring, and if they were Dean couldn’t see it and Sam had never given a damn what random bystanders thought anyway.

Dean didn’t really feel like talking till they’d pulled up outside the diner and Sam went in and got them doughnuts.

“Aren’t we meeting any of the other families?” Dean asked, biting into his. “Sam, if it’s because of me –”

“It’s not because of you. There’s nobody else still here. Abe Goldberg’s wife and children now live in New York. Boy’s a banker, girl’s a lawyer. Alexander Barnes had no family and his girlfriend’s moved to Chicago. And it doesn’t really matter, anyway – we saw the Hessian. Not much they can tell us. We just need – um, yeah? Can I help you?”

Dean tried to judge by the sudden change in tone whether whoever had caught Sam’s attention was a threat. He couldn’t tell, so he settled for scowling in the direction of the ground and making himself appear as threatening as possible.

“I heard you mention the Hessian,” a voice said. Dean didn’t know it. Didn’t sound too pissed-off or anything.

“Um… Yeah. My brother and I, we’re really interested in lore and… you know, supernatural stuff. We were passing through, and we couldn’t resist checking out Sleepy Hollow. Do you know anything about the Headless Horseman?”

“I can tell you _everything_ ,” the voice said. “Everything about the Hessian of the Hollow.”

“Sure,” Dean heard Sam’s voice. “I’m Sam Davis. This is my brother, Dean.”

“My name is Ichabod Crane.”

 

 

* * *

  
Sam tensed. He hadn’t felt a chill, the guy seemed _human_ –

“I’m not a ghost,” Ichabod Crane said.

“No. Ichabod Crane is dead.” Sam felt Dean move next to him, and grabbed his brother’s wrist to hold him in place. This was _so_ not the time for Dean to get all protective. “So either you’re lying or you’re a ghost.”

“I _am_ Ichabod Crane, I’m not a ghost and I’m not lying. And I’m the only person who can help you defeat the Hessian of the Hollow. I know you have silver and holy water in your glove compartment, so why don’t you get on with it? Once you’ve established that I’m human, we can talk about the important things.”

Sam hesitated. Going to get the silver knife and holy water from the trunk would mean leaving Dean exposed, and –

“Go get it, Sammy,” Dean said quietly. “I’m fine.”

Sam was as quick as he could, grabbing the equipment and hurrying back to put himself between Dean and the stranger who claimed to be Ichabod Crane.

Crane drank the water and let Sam cut his arm with the knife. When black smoke hadn’t poured out of his mouth and his skin hadn’t sizzled the way a shifter’s would’ve done, Sam gave a short nod.

“All right. Talk.”

“Here?”

“You have a better place in mind?”

“There’s a rest stop five miles down the highway. I’ll meet you there. It’s a quiet place. We won’t be overheard.”

He got into his own car – a truly hideous canary-yellow hatchback, and Sam couldn’t help thinking, with a pang, of what Dean would say if he could see it.

When he’d driven out of the lot, Sam turned to his brother.

“You OK for this?”

“What choice do we have?”

Dean reached out, probably intending to pat his shoulder, and ended up poking him in the arm instead. Sam saw a look of frustration cross his brother’s face, and then Dean turned and fumbled at the passenger door.

Sam went around to the driver’s side, hoping like hell that this guy, whether he was Ichabod Crane or not, would have a solution to the problem.

The rest stop was deserted. The asphalt of the parking lot was pockmarked with holes and covered in loose gravel.

“Don’t get out,” Sam said quietly. Dean instinctively turned towards his voice. “The ground’s not safe, you’ll break your ankle. I’ll come get you.”

It took less than a minute for him to get out and go around to the passenger door, but Dean’s eyes were suspiciously bright when he got there. Sam felt something twist in his gut.

“C’mon, man,” he murmured, opening the door. “It’s not a big deal.”

Dean started at the sound of his voice, but he stayed sitting stiffly until Sam reached in to urge him out. He moved then, but his shoulders were shaking.

Sam snuck a glance at maybe-Ichabod, who was watching them with a frozen smile.

“You just meant you were going to come around and help me out?” Dean whispered.

“Yeah, of course. What did you think I meant?” Dean shook his head. “Dean?”

“I thought you wanted me to wait in the car until… till you were done with that guy.”

Dean sounded sad and vulnerable and _lost_ , all the things his normally strong and confident big brother should _never_ sound, and if maybe-Ichabod’s eyes hadn’t been on them, Sam would have stopped for a chick-flick moment.

“No way, man,” Sam said lightly. “He looks like sympathy won’t work on him. I need you to come be intimidating.”

Sam managed to get Dean across the lot to the picnic benches. He steered him to the nearest one and sat him down, sliding in next to him and keeping just close enough that Dean would sense his presence. A moment later, Ichabod sat across from them.

“So the Hessian has reached your brother,” he said, eyes gleaming with something almost like _glee_. “Your time is short.”

“You know what he does?”

“I’ve known about the Hessian for a very long time, Sam Davis. I just haven’t been able to do anything about it.”

“Do you know how we can undo this?”

“Oh, that one’s simple. May not be easy, though. You have to kill him.”

“We have to kill the Headless Horseman.”

“Yeah. Such a shame… Tourism revenues are going to sink through the floor. Sleepy Hollow is nothing without ghost sightings. But what can you do?” The guy smiled. It was unpleasant. “A few extra bucks for the motel owners weighed against your brother’s life. I’m pretty sure I know what you’ll choose.”

“What do I do?”

“I can help you there. I may be the only one who can help you. The information I have isn’t in any books.”

“You know where the Horseman’s buried?”

“Buried? No. But I do know his name.” He nodded, like that settled everything. “Johann von Ahlen. He was a fusilier. Von Knyphausen’s regiment, if I’m not wrong. He has… something of a tragic story.”

“Don’t we all?” Dean grunted. “What happened to him?”

“He fell in love. Her name was Wanda Bahner. The Bahners were, as I understood it, poor but very respectable. The regiment passed through Sleepy Hollow and Johann left the young and beautiful Wanda with… a bun in the oven. God, I hate that euphemism. Her father eventually found out, and turned her out. She wrote to Johann begging for help. He left his regiment at once, against his commander’s orders, and went back to her.”

“So that should be happily ever after, right?” Dean asked.

“Not really. Right after he’d found Wanda, they came across some other soldiers who recognized him, and they shot him as a deserter. Then they cut off his head so he wouldn’t be able to find his way to Heaven. They buried his body in a shallow grave in the cemetery and his head… elsewhere. Nobody knows where.”

“What happened to Wanda?” Sam asked.

The guy laughed. “Nobody knows. The soldiers tried to take Wanda to a church where they hoped she would be cared for, but she fled. Nobody ever found her. The common consensus was that, between an illegitimate pregnancy and a lover who’d been shot for desertion, she couldn’t bear the shame of her continued existence and drowned herself.”

Sam felt Dean’s hand on his knee.

“So we need to find his grave? This… Johann von Ahlen? Find his grave and find his head –”

“And burn them both.” Maybe-Ichabod got to his feet. “Good luck, Sam Davis. Your brother’s life is in your hands now.”

“Wait!” Sam protested. “We still don’t know who you are.”

“I’m Ichabod Crane. You might not believe me, but how does my name matter as long as I can help you?”

 

 

* * *

  
Dean let himself relax into the arm Sam had slung around his shoulders. Sure, he didn’t _like_ having to be guided from place to place, didn’t like how _helpless_ it made him feel, _hated_ the guilt in Sam’s voice when Dean tripped on a large pebble Sam hadn’t noticed. But this was better than Sam leaving him in the Impala while he handled all the interviews.

The air changed, grew suddenly cool and damp, and Dean knew they were inside the church. He shivered.

“I’m going to look at the church register,” Sam murmured. “Want to come with?”

Dean hesitated. The church was probably full of pews and benches and statues and other crap Sam would have to navigate him around. And it would be far less suspicious if he just sat in a pew.

“Like I want to listen to you being a geek. Just tell me where I can sit.”

Sam led him a few feet to the left and gave him a light shove to sit him down on the wooden bench.

“I won’t be far,” he said. “Just looking at the register. I’ll be able to see you all the time, and you can yell if you need me.”

“I’m not a kid, Sam!” Dean snapped. “I can survive without you keeping an eye on me.” There was a pause, and Dean just _knew_ that if he could see, he’d be seeing Sam’s sad puppy eyes. That just made him feel worse. “Go do your job.”

He tried to inject a trace of apology into that. He probably wasn’t very successful, though, because Sam just said, “Yeah, OK,” and then Dean heard footsteps walking away.

Dean straightened in his seat, ducking his head so it’d look like he was… contemplating. Maybe praying, ridiculous as that sounded.

He had a lot to think about.

So far he hadn’t let himself consider the possibility that they might not be able to fix this. He still didn’t seriously think that would happen – Sam was a kickass hunter, and with Dean’s life on the line he’d put in everything he had and then some. If anyone could get them out of this, it was Sammy.

But this wasn’t just any ghost. This was the _Headless Horseman_. He’d been evading hunters for centuries. This might be the one thing that was beyond even Sammy.

And if Sam couldn’t solve this…

Dean bit his lip.

His hearing would go soon, and then his ability to _speak_ , and… He’d still be able to communicate with Sam. They couldn’t _talk_ , but they’d never needed words and they’d understand each other just fine even if all they had to work with was pats to arms and jostling shoulders and kicks under the table.

He’d _only_ be able to communicate with Sam. Dean had no illusions; he wasn’t Helen Keller and if they couldn’t fix this –

There was a light touch to his knee, and a whiff of gunpowder mixed in with Sam’s girly coconut shampoo. Dean turned automatically, reaching out. He fumbled in the air for a moment and then his hand landed on Sam’s head. Judging by the height, Sam was crouching in front of him.

“Find anything?”

“No records of von Ahlen,” Sam said. “And no birth or death listings for Ichabod Crane, either.”

“So the guy we met…”

Sam sighed. “Not a ghost, not a shifter, not a revenant, not possessed. I don’t know. I mean, he could be anyone – we have no idea what Crane _really_ looked like. For all we know he’s a lunatic who really does think he’s Crane.”

“You think so?”

“I hope not. If he’s lying then we have absolutely nothing to go on to find the Horseman.”

Dean rubbed Sam’s head, the action familiar and as soothing to him as it was to his brother. He was about to say something, but he was interrupted when he heard the door behind them slam open.

“Well, well,” a malicious voice said. “If it isn’t Mr. Beginner’s Luck and his sugar daddy.”

Dean stiffened, recognizing the speaker, but Sam clapped him on the knee – a signal to let Sam handle this – and got to his feet. Dean knew without having to see it that he was pulling himself up to his full height.

“We don’t want trouble,” Sam said, and this wasn’t his sympathetic, brave little soldier voice. This was the voice that said he truly didn’t _want_ trouble but if pressed he was perfectly capable of causing a lot of it. “So why don’t you guys leave? Go back home, keep playing pool, and we can all forget we ever met.”

“Doesn’t look like you guys plan to forget you ever met.”

There was near-inaudible scuffling as Jed took a couple of steps forward, and then a soft grunt from Sam. Dean tensed, every fibre screaming at him to get up and throw punches, but he _couldn’t_ , he couldn’t see what he was doing and he might end up hitting Sam –

“Take your hands off me,” Sam hissed, in a low, furious tone that would’ve made even _Dean_ back off.

Dean forced himself to stay sitting. If he stood, Jed would _know_ that something was wrong with him, and he’d be even likelier to target Sam if he knew Dean couldn’t watch out for him.

“I knew the puppy had teeth,” Jed spat. “I have unfinished business with you, boy, but I’m not here for that now. What happened to Mark?”

“Mark?”

Movement, and another bitten-off sound from Sam. Dean hated not being able to see, and more than that he hated not being able to help. He knew Sam was holding himself back from hitting Jed because he didn’t want to start a fight when Dean couldn’t defend himself, and that made him feel as useless as a salt round against Dracula.

“My friend,” Jed said. “He went to talk to you guys last night and I’ve not seen him since. The motel girl said he came asking for you but you were out, and she seems to be the last person who saw him. You do something to him? Because if you did, I’m going to make you regret the day you were _born_.”

“I have no idea where your friend is,” Sam growled. “Now take your hands off me and _get. Out_. You come near either of us again, and church or not, you won’t be walking away.”

Stumbling footsteps, and then Sam was tugging Dean to his feet.

“They’re gone,” Sam said.

 _They?_ How many of them had there _been_?

“You OK, Sammy? Did he… What did he do to you?”

“I’m fine. He just grabbed my shirt. That’s all, I promise. Let’s just…”

“Sammy?”

“Let’s just gank the damn ghost and then we can get out of this place.”


	4. He Vanished in the Mist

**[  
](http://collegeboy-spn.livejournal.com/31338.html)**

 

Lunch was hamburgers in the Impala. Hamburgers didn’t need knives and forks. Dean felt a surprising surge of gratitude when Sam got himself a burger, too, and not whatever rabbit food he’d probably had his eye on. Samantha putting bad cholesterol into his system was truly a sign of solidarity.

After lunch they made a round of the library, the town hall, and any other place that Sam thought looked even vaguely like it might provide information on a Hessian trooper who’d been killed in the seventeen hundreds. Nobody knew anything, and the next person to ask Sam in an undertone if Dean needed any special facilities was going to get Dean’s fist in their jaw.

Or possibly in their neck. Dean’s hand-eye coordination wasn’t the best right now.

They risked going to a café for dinner. By then they’d spent the day navigating, so they’d both got the hang of it. Sort of. Sam guided Dean to his seat and told him where his glass was. Dean drank without spilling. It was all fine until the waiter put a Braille menu in his hands.

Then Dean just wanted to cry.

A regular menu would have been better. He was mentally prepared not to be able to see a regular menu. He’d been not seeing things all day. But _this_ was too much. The raised dots _should_ mean something to him because they were the only way he could _read_ now. Dean was now the guy who got handed the Braille menu and he couldn’t _read_ it. The texture made no sense to him. And if he couldn’t read that, what _could_ he read, and –

And the worst part was that the stupid waiter probably thought he’d been very considerate, and it was probably one of the things the cafe owners _bragged_ about, being disabled-friendly. Dean would be a jerk to complain about it –

The menu was taken out of his hands, and Sam’s voice said, “Remember how you used to read me the menus when I was a kid?”

Dean _did_ have to blink back tears then. They weren’t for himself. They were for all the other people who’d been in this position, who’d suddenly lost one of their biggest connections to the world, and who hadn’t had a Sammy sitting across from them kicking them under the table and trying to make them feel like everything was all right.

“Dean?” Sam sounded worried now, and Dean shook his head.

“It’s OK… I’m fine, kiddo. Read me the menu.”

The evening should have looked up after that, but of course they weren’t that lucky. They’d just finished ordering when Dean heard a chair scraping as someone sat, uninvited, at their table. He turned his head towards the sound.

“You again?” Sam asked. But he only sounded faintly annoyed, not disturbed, so Dean relaxed.

“I’m disappointed,” came the response, and Dean recognized the voice straight away – the man who called himself, and might or might not be the ghost of, Ichabod Crane. “After everything I told you, I thought you would be well on your way to digging up the grave by now. Not sitting here… Eating.”

He sounded like was wrinkling his nose.

“Is there a reason you’re here?” Sam said coldly.

“Why haven’t you finished the Hessian yet?”

“Why do you care?”

“Really? You think that’s the way to go? It doesn’t matter why I care, and _that’s_ not the question you should be asking.” Crane’s voice was closer, and Dean knew the man was now speaking to him. “Dean, _you_ should be asking your partner why he’s taking it so easy. Your life is on the line now. Clearly he doesn’t care –”

“Shut up,” Dean said without heat, covertly nudging Sam’s shin with his foot – at least, he _hoped_ it was Sam’s shin, because he _so_ didn’t want to be kicking some creepy stranger under the table.

“You listen to me,” Crane hissed, and he was talking to Sam again. “If you don’t want your brother’s life on your hands, you need to get rid of the ghost. I thought you would have done it by now. I gave you his name. I told you his story. All the information you need.” Something was getting to Dean, something about his voice and his urgency. “You could have salted and burned him twice over by now, but you’ve got exactly _nothing_ to show for it.”

“Hey,” Dean snapped. “That’s enough.”

“I don’t think you understand the seriousness –”

“No, I understand plenty. What I don’t understand is why _you_ care so much. Who the hell _ever_ you are, this clearly matters to you, and you know how to get rid of ghosts. If it’s that easy, why haven’t you done it yourself? Because you can’t. You don’t know where he’s buried. All you know is some stupid old wives’ tale and you’re trying to guilt-trip my brother. We can handle the job, we don’t need your help, now get out.”

There was a moment’s dead silence. Then Crane’s chair scraped again, his footsteps receded, and Sam let out a relieved breath.

* * *

Sam grinned at Dean even though he knew his brother couldn’t see it. He should’ve known that Dean would always have his back.

“Stop it,” Dean said irritably.

“I’m not doing anything.”

“I can _feel_ you looking.”

Sam laughed and looked away. The café was busy, which was surprising for a place so far from the town of Sleepy Hollow itself. Sam supposed it worked for road trippers. He watched the waiters bustling about and carrying trays back and forth.

He was watching the kitchen door swing shut when he saw the computer on the counter flicker and disappear.

“Crap.”

“Sammy?”

“We have to go. Now.” Sam hauled Dean to his feet, looking around at the crowded café. Full of innocent civilians who might get hurt, who might disappear without a trace like Jed’s friend. He couldn’t leave them here – and he had to help Dean.

He spotted the fire alarm and sprinted across the room to it, mumbling hasty apologies to the people whose food he knocked over. Praying that the alarm was still working, he smashed the glass, ignoring the tiny shards that embedded themselves in his hands, and pressed the button.

“Hey!” someone yelled, but it was lost in startled exclamations and children crying and the sound of people getting to their feet.

Sam turned to Dean, and his breath caught for a moment at how startled and bewildered – how _lost_ – his big brother looked.

He crossed the distance in a few steps and grabbed Dean’s shoulders.

“Sammy?”

“Yeah, it’s me. Come on.”

He hurried Dean out, supporting him when he stumbled.

They’d barely gained the parking lot when white mist descended.

“ _Crap._ ”

People were frightened, screaming, and Dean had stiffened against him. “Sam, what’s going on?”

Sam didn’t know if it was safe to stay where they were – it was the parking lot, and last time it had happened Jed’s friend had disappeared from the _street_ – but visibility had gone down to nothing. There was no way he’d find the Impala in this.

“It’s the fog again. Don’t move.”

“The fog?” Dean whispered, and Sam heard his fear.

He tightened his arm around his brother’s shoulders, hating his helplessness. Of course Dean didn’t like it; the Headless Horseman had done – _something_ – to him in this mist and –

Dean’s head was turning into his shoulder, and it was all kinds of _wrong_ seeing his big brother so vulnerable.

“It’s OK,” Sam whispered, wrapping his other arm around Dean as well. _Nothing_ was getting to Dean without going through him first. “We’re fine. You’re fine. I don’t even –”

Sam cut himself off in the middle of “I don’t even see him” when the great shadowy figure of the Hessian on the horse appeared, galloping down what was probably the road. The Horseman was moving like he had a purpose. He was going to run someone else down; and although Sam’s hunter’s instincts screamed at him to go get in between before a civilian got hurt, he forced himself to stay where he was. Dean was already out of action, and the only way of stopping the ghost was if Sam did it.

Sam _needed_ to stay safe. It was best for everyone, including all the civilians who’d get hurt after the Horseman got to him if Sam got in the ghost’s way now.

He took the opportunity to study the figure. It _was_ headless, the body ending in a horrible stump of a neck. The horse was _very_ tall, maybe twenty hands, and its hooves ate up the ground as its rider urged it to move faster.

Sam waited for the scream as it touched someone, but there was nothing. And… Now that he thought about it, the Horseman didn’t look like he was trying to get anyone, either. He was riding with purpose… But he didn’t look he was _hunting_ someone.

He was going somewhere.

Dean was trembling, and Sam rubbed his back and murmured something comforting. His mind was racing.

Had the Horseman been doing that yesterday? Had he been doing that all along? Sam and Dean had been on the road, so if the Horseman had been making for some destination, they’d been directly in his path. He might just have ridden through Dean without knowing or caring that he was a person.

Sam had assumed the ghost had been malicious, and it certainly was dangerous and needed to be finished, but it didn’t look like it _meant_ harm. It looked like it was on a mission and would ride right through anyone who was in its way.

As Sam watched the Horseman pause, turning the horse in a circle as though trying to find his way, something else clicked in his mind. Legend said – and if maybe-Crane’s story was true, it was probably right – that the Hessian was searching for his severed head. Except, of course, that he’d now had well over two hundred years and a limited area in which to look. Either the Hessian of the Hollow was the worst searcher in the history of forever, or he knew where his head was buried but couldn’t get it.

But maybe he could lead Sam to it.

Dean was still shivering minutely and Sam felt a pang at leaving him – but _Dean_ needed him to figure this out, and this might be the only way.

“Stay here, Dean,” Sam murmured, stepping away.

“What?”

“I’ll come back for you.” He gripped Dean’s shoulders briefly. “I promise I’m coming back for you, Dean. I’ll explain later, but there’s no time now. Just wait here.”

Ignoring Dean’s questions, Sam ran after the ghost as quickly as the shrouding mist allowed. It was difficult, and if the Horseman hadn’t been stopping every few moments to turn his horse around as though he was looking for something, Sam wouldn’t have been able to keep up. The parking lot was crowded, and Sam bumped into cars and people and once he tripped over what was probably a dog.

The rider was almost out of sight before Sam reached the road, which was blessedly free of obstacles – and he knew this was dangerous, he might get run over, the ghost might turn and come after him and he was unarmed. But Dean was _dying_.

He ran full out. He could barely see the Horseman, a tiny speck in the distance, but he _had_ to reach him.

And then, fortunately, the horse stopped moving altogether. The horseman leapt off, cloak billowing behind him although there was no wind. He took a few steps off the road, the horse waiting patiently where he’d left it.

Sam didn’t stop running. That had to be it. That was where the Hessian’s head was buried. He had to get there, had to find the spot before the ghost disappeared.

He was a few yards away when the mist began to dissipate. The horseman vanished, but Sam had seen where he was standing, standing and staring down at the ground like there was something he desperately needed underneath.

Sam looked down at the grass. The soil seemed loosely packed, but it had been more than two hundred years. It was probably buried pretty deep. He’d need the shovel from the car.

And he needed to get back to Dean. His brother must be freaking out.

 

 

* * *

  
Dean was alone. Sam had said something about coming back and then he’d disappeared. He’d disappeared and _left_ Dean and now all Dean could hear was people screaming in the darkness and –

Oh God. He couldn’t do anything. If the ghost came back he couldn’t help anyone, couldn’t help _himself_. That thought hadn’t been as horrifying when Sam had been around.

Dean had never realized just how comforting Sam’s presence had been until it was _gone_. Sam was gone, God knew where, and Dean was here and he couldn’t _see_ and there was nobody to guide him with a hand on his shoulder and kick him under the table just to let him know he wasn’t alone and read him the menu and make him feel like suddenly having lost his sight didn’t make his life unbearable.

Dean was _alone_.

Someone bumped into him.

Dean stumbled, and a man’s voice snapped, “What the hell were you doing standing right in front of the steps, idiot?”

“Jake,” a woman’s voice said, quick and quiet. “Jake, I think he’s…”

“What?”

“You know.” The woman’s voice dropped an octave. “ _Blind._ ”

“Oh.” Jake sounded embarrassed now. “Oh, man, I am _so_ sorry. I had no idea. Are you hurt? I’m sorry. Is that – are you OK? Can I call someone for you?”

“No, I’m fine. I’m just… Waiting for my brother. He’s going to be along in a few minutes.” Dean _hoped_ so, anyway. Because he _needed_ Sam. “Don’t worry about it, man, it’s cool.”

“No, really, I’m so sorry. I couldn’t – at least let me help you to a bench. You should sit down.”

Dean felt a strong urge to punch Jake. He was blind, not an invalid.

“Nah, Sam told me to wait here.”

“Don’t worry, the bench is right here. Your brother’s going to be able to see you.”

“But –”

But the guy was already moving him away, and Dean normally _would_ have hit him but he couldn’t even _see_ him. Besides, he didn’t want to cause trouble until Sam was there to get him out of it.

Then Jake and his girlfriend were gone and he was alone again and he didn’t even know if Sam would be able to _see_ him.

Minutes ticked by. Maybe hours. There were footsteps and voices, and then there was laughter. The fog must have lifted. No sobbing, so maybe nobody was hurt.

The fog had lifted. Where was Sam? Maybe he’d come back and hadn’t been able to find Dean and was looking for him somewhere else. Jake had said Sam would be able to see him on the bench, but what the hell did Jake know? What if Sam thought Dean had ditched him?

There were footsteps coming towards him. Sammy.

Dean got to his feet and took a couple of tentative steps forward. His shoe struck something and he went down. Hard.

Oh _God_. He was sprawled in the gravel like an idiot, and –

And there was a strong arm around him.

“Dean?” Sam murmured. “What happened? Are you OK?”

“ _Sammy._ ”

Sam probably understood, because he said, “Yeah, OK. I’ve got you.”

“You _left_.”

“I didn’t leave, Dean. I was just – I was checking something out.”

Dean knew that tone, and he didn’t miss a beat when he said, “Truth, Sam.”

Sam sighed, helping Dean up. “Don’t freak out. I followed the Horseman –”

Dean had _known_ it was some stupid crap like that.

“Sam, you _moron_ –”

“He wasn’t trying to hurt anyone.” Dean scoffed and Sam went on quickly. “No, I know he’s hurting people. I mean, he isn’t doing it because he wants to. He just doesn’t _care_. Maybe he doesn’t even realize he’s hurting them. He’s looking for his head. I thought he might lead me to it.”

“That sounds less disturbing than it should.”

Sam laughed. “I think he did lead me there, though. He led me to a _place_ and I think his head might be buried there.”

“Even if it is, we still need his body.”

“We’ll find it.” Sam squeezed Dean’s shoulders. “I promise. Do you still want your burger?”

Dean was about to say _hell_ yes – he always wanted his burger – but he couldn’t face going back inside to the waiter who’d given him a Braille menu and Jake who’d knocked him down and then guided him to a bench like he was freaking _helpless_ and –

“OK,” Sam said softly. “Let’s go to the car. You can wait there and I’ll go back in and get our order.”

Dean had barely realized Sam had been walking them somewhere, but then a door opened and Sam’s hand was on his head, keeping it down so he didn’t bump it as he lowered himself into the passenger seat.

“Sammy?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t be long.”

Dean hated the vulnerability in his own voice. But all Sam said was, “Sure, Dean.”

Sam was back in what was probably a few minutes, though it felt to Dean like hours. Dean wasn’t sure what he looked like, but it must’ve been terrible because it took about ten seconds for his brother to draw him close.

“Sam,” he protested half-heartedly.

“Eat your burger.”

Dean started to eat. Sam wasn’t, though. The Impala was moving.

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere we can wait for night.”

Night. Dean shuddered. The next day his hearing would go, and he would be even more isolated.

His _hearing_ would go.

“Sam?”

“What, Dean?”

“Tell me about…” Dean hesitated. What could he come up with that would lead to a Sam-lecture that would go on for a good four hours? “Tell me about classical influences on Elizabethan art.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Please.”

Dean could feel Sam staring at him. But his brother probably understood, because a moment later he started talking. Dean finished his burger, and then he fell asleep to the sound of Sam’s voice.

 

 

* * *

  
As soon as Dean was asleep, Sam slipped out, grabbed the first aid kit, and pulled out the few tiny glass shards that were still embedded in his hand. He hadn’t wanted to say anything about it in front of Dean; patching him up was usually his big brother’s job and it would have made his big brother feel even worse than he already did.

Dean was still asleep when Sam wrapped a bandage around his hand.

Careful not to wake him, Sam put the car in gear and drove back to where the Horseman had stopped.

Dean was going to _kill_ him when he found out. It was stupid to hunt without backup. Sam should call _someone_. But everyone they knew was at the other end of the country, and he couldn’t risk waiting, not with Dean’s life in the balance.

He pulled the car onto the shoulder, near enough to where he needed to dig that he’d be able to keep an eye on Dean the whole time.

As long as the Horseman didn’t interfere, he could do this.

He grabbed a shovel from the trunk and started digging.

He had to go about five feet before the edge of the shovel struck something hard. Sam knelt and brushed the dirt aside. Instead of the skull he’d been expecting, there was a firm, flat surface.

A box?

He cleared away soil with the shovel. The flat surface extended too far to be just a box with a severed head. Sam went on until he’d uncovered a coffin.

The body, then.

Except that maybe-Crane had said the body was in the cemetery. Maybe he’d had the location wrong, but –

Mist was descending.

_Crap._

Sam looked up, frantically trying to spot Dean in the car, but he couldn’t see more than a foot as the fog came down thick and fast, covering everything before Sam could even scramble out of the hole.

He’d parked far enough away for Dean not to be in danger. He thought he had. He _hoped_ he had. If he had that wrong –

There was a flickering shadow, and then the Headless Horseman was in front of him.

Sam stepped back, fumbling for his gun.

But the Horseman wasn’t moving forward or trying to attack. He was simply standing there, body turning towards Sam and away again and again like he was trying to say something.

“What?” Sam asked.

The Horseman didn’t show any sign of having heard. Of course he couldn’t hear, he didn’t have ears –

Sam stared. That was what was happening. That was why all the people the Hessian touched were losing their senses. They were suffering the same way the ghost did, falling into dark silence with no connection to the outside world other than touch. The Horseman could touch. He couldn’t hear or see or speak. He could _only_ touch.

The ghost stepped closer, clearly _aware_ of Sam, but –

The Hessian raised his hand and pointed at where his head would have been if he’d had one. Then he pointed at the coffin. He repeated the gesture four times, as though to be certain Sam had understood.

Sam’s heart was racing. He _did_ understand, or he thought he did. Whatever else he was, the Hessian of the Hollow wasn’t malicious. He just wanted to be whole.

“All right,” Sam whispered. “You want me to put your head and body back together, is that it? I’ll do it. But then you have to fix the people you’ve hurt. Dean, and Fred. That guy who disappeared near the motel, was that your doing too? He vanished in the mist.”

Once again, the Hessian didn’t respond. He simply stood there as the mist thinned and disappeared, along with the brooding black figure on his tall horse.

Sam let out a breath, feeling like there might be hope after all. He had the body. That was more than he’d hoped for after a fruitless day of checking records and talking to people who seemed uncertain whether he was a lunatic or simply an obsessive ghost-chaser. He had the body, and maybe he’d soon have the head. If he handled it right, the Horseman might even lead him to it.

There was a sudden sound, a loud bang that reverberated in the darkness. At the same time, Sam felt a line of fire and pain on his upper arm.

Slowly, Sam raised his head.

Standing on the highway next to a beat-up pickup truck, rifle raised to fire again, was Jed.


	5. Ready to Move On Now

 

Dean woke up screaming.

He couldn’t hear it, though. He couldn’t hear _himself_. The world was thundering silence, and Dean had never realized how much background noise there was until it was gone. The creak of the Impala’s seats, the squeak of denim on leather, _Sam’s breathing_.

Dean was still screaming. He knew it because he could feel his throat vibrating with it, feel the ache and the hoarseness, but he couldn’t _hear_ –

And where was _Sam_?

The screaming changed to words, to Sam’s name, but Dean _still_ couldn’t hear. Was Sam mad? Was Sam busy? Was Sam _hurt_?

It took him a moment to realize someone was touching his head, and a moment more, struggling and pushing, to figure out that the hands on him were so big and gentle that they could only belong to Sam.

Dean relaxed and let Sam pat him down.

Then he said, “I can’t hear.”

Sam took his hand and traced _OK_ into his palm. Then he patted Dean’s shoulder, and Dean allowed himself to be drawn into a hug, wrapping his own arms around Sam.

And that was when he felt the flinch.

He pulled back quickly, trying not to feel hurt. Sam had _flinched_ from him. Sure Dean was blind and deaf and useless as a hunter, and he’d probably been ridiculously needy and maybe he was getting on Sam’s nerves, but Sam had _flinched_ from him.

Sam grabbed his hand again. Dean tried to pull away – Sam had _flinched_ – but Sam tugged him forward, flattening Dean’s palm over his chest.

Dean hesitated, unsure what Sam was going for, and then Sam breathed in and out and Dean felt the raised texture of stitches through Sam’s shirt.

He sighed, feeling a surprising sense of relief – Sam hadn’t flinched from _him_ , he’d flinched because Dean had pressed down on his injury. It only took a moment, though, for the relief to be pushed aside by horror. What had _happened_ while Dean had been asleep?

He pushed Sam’s shirt up, following the line of the injury. It was about four inches long, and the stitches felt uneven. Sam had probably done them himself. And he hadn’t bandaged it. Little idiot. Dean had been out of it, yeah, but that was why they had things like _doctors_ and _clinics_.

Dean ran light fingers over Sam’s ribs, frowning when he found another spot that made his brother wince. No stitches or broken skin there, so it was probably just a bruise.

“What else?” Dean demanded.

Sam shifted Dean’s hand to his arm. Dean could feel a few layers of gauze under his shirt.

Someone had hurt Sammy. Some son of a bitch who clearly had a death wish had _hurt Sammy_.

“Who did it?” Dean growled, hand still resting over the bandage.

Sam pushed his hand down, a clear indication of _leave it_.

Like hell Dean was going to leave it.

He grabbed Sam’s arm, careful to avoid the injury, and tugged, forcing Sam to stay facing him. “ _Who did it?_ ”

Dean knew the answer even before the letters _J – E – D_ were traced into his hand.

 

 

* * *

  
Sam hadn’t been expecting the vibes of anger and frustration he was getting from Dean. He hadn’t expected Dean to be _happy_ he was hurt, but it really wasn’t that bad. A bullet graze to his arm, a non-fatal cut on his ribs and some bruises, they got hurt worse than that all the time. Normally Dean would have patched Sam up, given him a couple of painkillers, and left it at that.

This time Dean was _fuming_.

“Dean,” Sam said, and then he realized Dean couldn’t hear.

He did the next best thing, dropping one hand to Dean’s knee in a gesture he knew his brother would read. _What’s wrong?_

Dean shook his head.

Sam responded with a light squeeze.

Dean shoved him off roughly. Sam _knew_ his big brother didn’t intend to hurt him and if he could possibly have held back his reaction he would have done it. But Dean’s hand pressed down on a particularly painful bruise and Sam couldn’t entirely suppress the little gasp. Dean couldn’t hear it, but he _did_ feel the flinch, if the way he snatched his hands back was any indication.

“Dean, no.” Sam turned to his brother, and the stricken expression on Dean’s face was heartbreaking. “Dean.”

Sam reached out. Dean didn’t push him away this time. Dean didn’t _touch_ him. He just drew back, unseeing green eyes pleading with Sam to back off.

Sam couldn’t refuse.

He sank back, putting his hands on the wheel. The motel first. He _really_ needed to get the scruff off his chin. Then he was going to track down the Hessian’s head.

He had something to go on now, because the clearing where he’d found the body was out of the way, and none of the previous victims had been anywhere near it. That meant Sam had something to _go on_ to find the head. He’d check the cemetery, but he had a feeling the answer wasn’t there. Soldiers who thought Johann von Ahlen was a deserter, soldiers so angry they beheaded him after they shot him and buried him by the roadside like a suicide instead of in consecrated ground, would never have buried his head in the churchyard.

It had to be someplace else. Sam would find it.

Sam _had_ to find it, because Dean’s life depended on it. He wasn’t going to screw this one up.

Dean was stiff when Sam bent to help him out in the motel parking lot. He accepted Sam’s arm around his shoulders, but he was practically breathing discomfort. Sam tried not to take it personally – Dean was fiercely independent, and while he could get clingy when he was sick, this was different. And scary.

Normally when either of them got sick enough to be unable to hunt, they took a break, holed up in a motel somewhere and waited it out.

This time they couldn’t take a break. _This_ time Sam had to get the Horseman, because even if he hadn’t hurt Dean intentionally the fact remained that he’d _hurt Dean_ , and there was only one way this could end. One way to save his brother.

But that meant Sam had to be out, hunting, without Dean watching his back. He’d been lucky with Jed and he knew it. If he’d been accompanied by any of his friends, or if he’d been sober enough to make a kill shot the first time instead of grazing Sam’s arm, Sam would have been dead or dying and Dean would have been helpless.

They might not be that lucky another time.

Jed had been prowling around drunk, searching for his friend. Sam had the feeling that Jed did care about the guy, and he would have felt sorry for him if he hadn’t shot Sam and then proceeded to try to beat him up.

Sam pushed the thoughts aside as he unlocked the door. Dean could shower on his own, but for the rest…

Sam traced _SHAVE?_ into Dean’s palm.

“No,” Dean said, in a voice that was just a little louder than normal. “Chicks dig stubble.”

Sam laughed, guided Dean into the shower stall and handed him the soap. He left Dean fresh clothes on the counter. Then he plugged in his laptop and settled down with Google Maps.

 

 

* * *

  
Sam was busy working out where Cody Baker’s route could have intersected Abe Goldberg’s when there was a knock at the door.

He sighed. He hadn’t ordered any food, not that anybody would deliver to a motel out on the highway, so there were pretty much just two people it could be: Jed and maybe-Ichabod. Neither prospect filled Sam with excitement.

The knock came again, louder, and Sam got reluctantly to his feet.

It was neither Jed nor the man who called himself Ichabod. It was a woman. She was fifty or thereabouts, salt-and-pepper hair and big brown eyes. She was pretty, even now; when she’d been younger she’d probably stopped men in their tracks with a look.

“Sam Winchester?”

Sam’s brows drew together. “Who are you?”

“My name is Leah. Can I come in?”

Sam stepped back to let her enter. She made her way across the room to the table where he’d been working. Sam shut the door and followed her, banging on the bathroom door on the way and yelling, “We have company.” He wasn’t sure why he did it; Dean couldn’t hear. But the habit was ingrained.

He pulled out the chair opposite Leah and sat. “What can we do for you?”

“I was told you could help me. I want to know the truth about what happened to my brother.” At Sam’s questioning look, she went on, “Abraham Goldberg.”

Sam nodded, recognizing the name. “He was caught in fog on his way home and subsequently lost his sight, vision and hearing. Then he was found dead in his bathtub –”

“And they insisted it was suicide. Deliberate overdose. Everyone. Even his wife and kids. The police wouldn’t investigate, and the court called it an accidental overdose to spare our feelings, but everyone thought it was suicide.”

“You don’t.”

“I know my brother. Abe would never have killed himself.”

“I understand how you feel, but it must have been difficult for him… Maybe…”

“Abe would _never_ have killed himself,” Leah repeated.

“What do you think happened?”

“I don’t know. They said… I mean… _Something_ must have happened to him, right? That night out in the fog? Maybe he got some virus, or got injected with some drug without his knowing. It could have been a delayed reaction. First the blindness, and then the loss of hearing and… It’s possible, isn’t it?”

“I suppose so,” Sam said diplomatically.

“Ike came to me this morning. He said you could help.”

“Ike?” Sam sighed. “Let me guess… Ichabod Crane?”

Leah blushed. “Yes, that’s what he called himself. I always thought he was a bit of a… you know… not all there? He’s been hanging around for years.”

“Yeah?” Sam tried not to sound too eager. “How long’s he been around?”

“Years. I first saw him when Abe had his… accident. He insisted… Oh, I know it sounds crazy, but he insisted there was some stupid ghost story behind it all.”

“The Headless Horseman?”

“Yeah. We didn’t pay him a lot of attention, you know? I see him now and then, though, and when he came to me this morning –”

“Sam?”

Sam looked up. Dean was standing in the bathroom doorway, hair dripping onto his shoulders. He was dressed, but he looked uncomfortable about something.

 

 

* * *

  
Dean knew, instinctively, that someone else was in the room. Someone who wasn’t Sammy. He didn’t know who, didn’t know if they were a threat or he was supposed to start throwing punches –

Big, familiar hands, Sam’s hands, were on his arms, drawing him forward, and Sam seemed calm, so whoever this was, there was no danger.

Sam paused, and Dean knew he was supposed to do something, but –

Sam nudged his arm.

Oh.

Dean held out his hand. It was grasped by a dry, warm one that was much smaller and softer. A woman, and a woman who wasn’t used to rough work or handling weapons. Definitely not a threat. Unless of course she was a succubus or a demon – no, Sam wouldn’t be asking him to shake hands with a demon.

The hand was withdrawn. Dean let Sam push him into a chair. Then the hand on Dean’s back was withdrawn. Dean felt a stab of alarm, but a moment later the hand was back, on Dean’s knee this time, and Dean felt calm. Reassured.

It took him a moment to figure out why. Judging by the handshake and where Sam was now, Dean was between Sam and the woman. Of course, if Sam was allowing that, she probably wasn’t any kind of threat, and Sam’s reflexes were fast enough that if she _did_ turn out to be something ugly with too many teeth, he’d have a silver bullet in her long before she could lay a hand on Dean.

All the same, it was reassuring to know that he was between Sam and the potential danger. However much of a non-danger it was.

 

 

* * *

  
Leah’s story didn’t add much to what Sam already knew. But she could tell him one thing that hadn’t been in the police reports: her brother hadn’t been on his way home from _work_ when he’d been caught in the fog.

He’d been spending the day with a woman twenty years younger than him.

He hadn’t said so at the time; his wife and children had had no idea. Leah had known, and had tried to talk him out of it, but he’d been insistent. And once he’d died, she hadn’t thought there was any point raking up the past.

She was willing to tell Sam, though, when she realized that Dean had been hit by the same thing that had killed Abe. Sam nodded his gratitude and took notes, and when Leah had finished her story he thanked her and walked her out.

He came back and looked at Dean, and his heart just about broke.

Dean had been fine – better than fine – the entire time Sam had been talking to Leah, but the few minutes it had taken Sam to walk their guest to her car and say goodbye had clearly been too much for him. His hands were clenched on the table, white-knuckled, and his jaw was set in the way that meant he was internally freaking out.

He’d had no way of knowing where Sam had gone or whether he was coming back. It had only been a few minutes, but to Dean, completely alone, unable to see or hear…

Sam was in front of Dean before he’d had time to finish the thought, kneeling by the chair. He gently unclenched his brother’s fists and let him clutch Sam’s shirt instead. Dean gave him a hard shake, one that pulled at his stitches; but Sam, reading the worry and fear and _don’t do that to me again_ in the gesture, only laid an apologetic hand on Dean’s knee.

“Idiot,” Dean snapped, but he shifted his hand up into Sam’s hair.

 

 

* * *

  
Sam didn’t even _try_ to preserve manliness, his or Dean’s. With Dean as freaked as he was, he needed reassurance, and Sam wasn’t about to deny him just because Dean would probably want to be all macho and moronic about it later.

He hustled Dean to the couch, and sat next to him while he mapped Abe Goldberg’s route from his girlfriend’s house to his home.

Dean grumbled and muttered and shoved for a minute, but then he accidentally elbowed Sam in the ribs. It didn’t hurt – Dean had miraculously managed to miss the sore spots – but Dean looked stricken, and Sam wanted to reassure him but there wasn’t a lot he could do other than let Dean rub his arm in apology. That seemed to take the argument out of Dean; he stretched out on the couch with his head resting, almost timidly, in the crook of Sam’s elbow.

Sam got comfortable and got to work.

He’d tried this before, tracing all their routes to see if he could find a common point, something that might have disturbed the Horseman, but he’d been missing a couple of facts then. For one thing, he hadn’t known they were searching for two separate locations – the body and the head. Now that he knew –

Cody Baker had been nowhere near where the body was buried. That meant he had probably disturbed the head and woken the ghost, who had –

Sam paused. He’d assumed the Horseman would lead him to his head, and maybe he’d been partly right. Maybe the Horseman was riding back and forth between the head and the body, drawn to both places and unable to be at rest.

He could wait and follow the ghost again, but he couldn’t take the chance of it not appearing.

But he had the routes. He had Google Maps. He had a brother half-dozing against him, a brother who desperately needed Sam to fix this before he became another name on the list for another hunter to look up in twenty years.

Sam could do this.

It took most of the morning, but eventually Sam narrowed it down to a couple of possible locations. One was under a new housing project, and one was a stretch of empty land, one of the few still-wooded areas in the state, according to the map.

Sam decided to try that one first. If that lead didn’t pan out he’d try to figure out how he was going to dig through twelve feet of concrete.

 

 

* * *

  
He knew, as soon as he shook Dean and Dean looked up at him with a drowsily befuddled expression, that he couldn’t take his brother with him. He couldn’t expose him to that kind of danger. What if something went wrong, and Sam got killed or otherwise incapacitated? Dean needed to stay somewhere around civilization, somewhere with people who could help him if it came to the worst.

He scribbled his name and phone number on a sheet of paper and tucked it in Dean’s pocket. Dean was silent, trusting, and Sam felt like one of those dads who went out for a gallon of milk and never came home, but…

But he wasn’t abandoning Dean. He was keeping him safe.

He took Dean’s hand, spreading it open and inscribing _GHOST_ in his palm with a fingertip.

“Ganking it?” Dean demanded.

_YES_

“Awesome. Let’s go.”

Postponing the argument, Sam helped Dean up and out to the Impala. They might as well get lunch. No point ghost-hunting on an empty stomach.

But he should have known his brother wouldn’t fall for it, because they’d barely taken their seats in the small, crowded diner than Dean said, “Go on, Sam.”

Sam reached across the table.

_WHAT?_

“I’m not stupid. I know you’ve ordered me some ridiculous burger and you’re going to go off on your own to gank the ghost. I can’t help and… I’d probably be in the way.”

Dean’s voice dropped towards the end, like he was sad, or ashamed, and Sam couldn’t bear to hear it. Dean shouldn’t sound like that. Dean wasn’t _supposed_ to sound like that, like he thought he was a liability. Dean had to stay here for his own safety, because Sam couldn’t look out for him _and_ kill the ghost, and Dean needed to stay in a crowded place –

It was a moment before he realized he was kneeling in front of Dean, both hands in his brother’s, conveying everything he felt in the only way he could. People were staring, but Sam really didn’t care, because he _needed_ Dean to understand him.

“Such a girl,” Dean murmured after a moment.

Then a gentle hand ran over Sam’s head, and Sam knew they were OK.

“I’ll be fine,” Dean told him. “Go. Get him.” A light squeeze to the back of Sam’s neck. “Be careful.”

 

 

* * *

  
The white fog descended while Sam was digging, and he dived out of the way just in time to keep the Hessian from running through him.

“You want to be more careful?” he grunted, getting to his feet. “Maybe _not_ attack the guy who’s trying to put you back together?”

The Horseman stood over the hole, bending forward over it.

At any rate it looked like Sam had picked the right place.

“You’re not going to attack me, right?” Sam asked, picking up his shovel again. “After all, this was what you wanted.”

The ghost just stood there, not reacting even when Sam started to dig.

Right. Maybe, just maybe, for once he _wouldn’t_ have a problem with the ghost.

He spent about half an hour on it before the edge of the shovel struck something harder than the loose-packed soil. Sam dropped the tool and got to his knees, carefully brushing away the dirt.

There was a skull, almost brown now with age and time spent underground.

Sam let out a breath. “Is this it?”

There was no response. He had no idea why he’d expected one. He dug the skull out, wrapped it in his jacket, and got to his feet.

“OK,” he said, smiling at the ghost. “Let’s do this.” He paused. “You’ll have to get rid of the fog, though.”

He didn’t know if the Horseman understood, or for that matter even heard him, but after a moment the fog dissipated. Sam ran to the Impala. The place where the body was buried was no more than fifteen minutes away if he sped, maybe ten minutes if he drove like Dean in a hurry.

Sam made it in under eight minutes.

It was easy to get to the Horseman’s grave, the dirt loose and light from where he’d dug it up yesterday and just shovelled it over lightly afterwards. The mist came down, but it didn’t matter – Sam knew what he was doing.

He stopped when he felt the coffin under his shovel, crouching to prise up the lid – the few planks of rotting wood came easily this time – and then he scrambled out of the hole. He’d left the skull, still wrapped in his jacket, next to it for easy access. A little fumbling helped him find it, and then he dropped it in the coffin.

The mist thickened, almost _pressing_ into Sam. His clothes felt damp.

And the Horseman, a tall shadow in the fog, was whole.

Sam couldn’t help staring. He couldn’t make out details, but the Hessian definitely had a head. On it he was wearing a hat perched at what had probably been the fashionable angle, and he was sitting straight and proud on his horse.

“Ready to move on now?” Sam asked, pulling a matchbox from his pocket.

With all the dampness in the air, it took a couple of tries to get a match lit. Eventually he managed it, but before he could drop it in the grave, something struck him a sharp blow on the back of the head.

Sam’s world went dark for a moment before he managed to catch himself and turn.

Whoever had attacked him was hidden by the fog. Sam couldn’t see, not even a silhouette in the thick, swirling whiteness –

There was the bite of a knife in his side. He turned, this time glimpsing a shadowy _someone_ before a fist found his jaw.

He stumbled back and dropped the match. It fizzled out on the ground.

_Crap._

Before he could light another, his feet were kicked out from under him. He scrambled around, trying desperately to see his attacker, but he couldn’t see anything except the Horseman still standing at the other side of the grave, hand raised as though he wanted to act but wasn’t sure how.

Or maybe he wasn’t sure if he wanted to _help_ Sam or…

A heavy boot came down on Sam’s wrist. He yelped, and the boot was removed, only to slam hard into his gut.

Oh God.

Sam was being attacked by someone, or something, that he couldn’t even see. He couldn’t help the Horseman find peace. He couldn’t help _Dean_ –

He was _going_ to help Dean.

Whoever it was kicked him again, but it didn’t matter. Sam wasn’t even trying to defend himself anymore. He just had to _end_ this –

His fingers found the matches. Thank God.

He felt the knife again, in his shoulder this time, just as he managed to get a match lit. He tossed it into the grave, hoping with all he had that it would catch, that the fog hadn’t made everything too damp to burn.

It did.

Sam pushed himself up to his knees, staring across the flickering flames through the now thinning fog at the Horseman.

The ghost bowed his head, hand going up to the brim of his hat in a casual salute.

Sam nodded.

Then there was another blow to the back of his head, followed immediately by a hand closing around his throat.

Sam’s last thought before the world went dark was that he hoped Dean would be OK.


	6. That's What This Is About

 Dean felt the jerk as something shifted in his head, the faint cold he’d been feeling for the past couple of days morphing into warmth. ****

Then, suddenly, sounds were filtering into his brain. He hadn’t realized how _loud_ the world was until now, until the ticking of his watch and the chatter of the other people in the diner and the clink of silverware invaded the perfect silence.

He fought the urge to clap his hands over his ears.

And now there was light. The room was bright, so bright, _too_ bright, the harsh glare from the bulbs pounding into his skull like lasers –

It was terrible, but it was also wonderful, after the darkness and the silence. Dean had never felt so alive.

Sam had done it.

Dean had known he would, he hadn’t had the slightest doubt, and it was nice to be proven right.

Sam had _done it_.

Sam.

Dean glanced at his watch. Just going on four. Dean didn’t think Sam would have to go far, he’d almost certainly have told Dean if so. But he’d probably have a bit of cleanup to do before he could leave. Dean would’ve hotwired a car, but there wasn’t much sense causing a stir when Sam would be here soon anyway.

Sam would come for him.

 

* * *

  
An hour, four cups of coffee, a short stack of pancakes and two pieces of cherry pie later, Dean was starting to worry. Not that Sam hadn’t _come_ yet, because he’d probably wait for the fire to burn itself out.

But Sam hadn’t even called, and that wasn’t like the kid at all.

What was worse, Sam hadn’t been answering _his_ calls.

“More coffee?” he heard. “Or anything else?”

Dean looked up to smile at the waitress. His smile widened automatically at the sight of mile-long legs under a tiny skirt. It was _good_ having his sight back.

“Depends. What else do you have on offer?” he asked, and promptly winced.

He’d intended the words to come out light and flirtatious, but instead they sounded skeevy. The waitress clearly thought so too, if the way she rolled her eyes and flounced away was any indication. That was what he got for trying to pick up a girl when most of his mind was on his MIA brother.

Dean didn’t know why he’d even been trying to kid himself. He threw some money down on the table – the money Sam had taken off Jed. Dean grimaced. He wasn’t letting Sam hustle a creep like that next time, it was totally not worth it.

He got to his feet, half-hoping they’d run across Jed before they left town so Dean could teach him how to be a good loser. And also how calling someone’s little a brother a boy toy could cause you to end up with your intestines tied in a bow around your neck.

Sam had left his GPS on, so Dean just had to help himself to a car and then follow the blinking red dot on his cell phone screen.

He smelt the smoke first, and then he saw the Impala pulled up to the shoulder of the road. The fire in the grave was just starting to burn low, its light silhouetting a bundle on the ground –

A bundle that wasn’t equipment.

Dean’s heart stopped, and then started again when the bundle staggered to its feet.

And then it just about beat itself out of his chest, because the man standing and looking around like he was lost wasn’t Sam, and there was still a large unmoving shadow on the ground.

Dean got out of the car.

The standing man turned, and Dean caught a glimpse of his face in the firelight.

Jed.

 _God_ no.

He was going _down_.

“Hey!” Dean yelled, breaking into a run.

Jed had meddled with Dean’s baby brother one time too many. Dean was going to shoot him.

No, stab him in the heart.

No, shoot him. Right through the brain.

Or, actually, he didn’t need weapons at all. Dean was just going to use his bare hands.

His face probably showed his emotions, because Jed scrambled away from Sam with an expression of abject terror.

“I didn’t do it,” he yelped. “I didn’t do anything to him. I didn’t _touch_ him, I swear. I found him like that. I was just –”

He was cut off abruptly when Dean’s fist connected with his chin.

“Man, that feels good,” Dean grunted, grabbing Jed and slamming him against a tree. He held him there with one hand, pulling out his gun with the other and jamming the barrel under Jed’s chin. “So here’s the deal. I’m letting you live, mainly because I need to help Sam right now and I don’t have time to worry about getting rid of a body. You make trouble for us, you even _look_ at Sam ever again, I might change my mind. Am I making myself clear?”

Jed made a strangled sound. Dean let him go. He collapsed to his knees, breathing in harsh pants.

“You’re crazy,” he gasped.

Dean was torn. He didn’t feel a lot of sympathy for Jed – the son of a bitch had hurt Sammy, had threatened worse, and that meant he deserved whatever happened to him as far as Dean was concerned – and there was a part of him, the protective big brother part, that urged him to empty a full clip into the guy’s head just to be safe, but…

Jed was human. A miserable, pathetic excuse for a human, maybe, but human. And currently he was unarmed and helpless. Sam would be upset if Dean killed him.

At the same time, he needed to focus on Sam, now, and he couldn’t do that if he was worrying about what stunt Jed might pull.

“Your friend,” he said at last. “Mark. The one who disappeared. He’s probably back now. You should go check.”

“I _knew_ it was you guys –”

“You really want to go into that?” Dean kept his voice emotionless. It would be scarier that way. “We didn’t touch him. You can go check on him, or you can stay here and I’ll have to kneecap you to make sure you don’t cause trouble for me. What’s it going to be?”

Jed scowled and stumped away, and Dean turned his attention to his brother, who was just starting to stir.

“Sammy?” He dropped to his knees by the kid’s side. Sam’s face was bruised, and he was going to have an impressive black eye in the morning, but he didn’t seem bad enough to need a hospital. “Come on, wake up. I need to know where you’re hurt.”

Sam’s eyes opened. “Dean?” He tried to sit up, but fell back with a soft moan. “Dean. OK?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. How about we worry about you now?” He patted Sam’s chest, and stiffened when his fingers encountered damp fabric. “Sam?”

“Knifed me. Don’t think… Not fatal. Just… bleeding.”

Dean unbuttoned Sam’s shirt to find that his brother was right. The cuts were deep, and they were bleeding a little too much for comfort, but they had clearly missed his heart and lungs. Sam’s breathing was shallow, but that was probably because of pain. And his heart beat a reassuring, if slightly fast, rhythm under Dean’s hand.

Dean ran a hand through Sam’s hair, feeling for bumps. There were a couple, but Sam’s eyes were clear and his pupils were dilating normally.

“Yeah,” Dean murmured, shrugging out of his jacket. He stripped off his shirt and balled it up, pressing it over the deepest cut to stem the flow of blood. “You were lucky. You’ll be fine.”

Sam shot him an _I told you so_ look and Dean laughed. Even injured, his brother always had the energy for a bitchface.

“Who did it?” he asked. “Jed?”

“Don’t know… Couldn’t see.”

“We’ll figure it out. C’mon, now, need to get you back and patch you up. You’re going to need stitches, even if it isn’t fatal. Hold this.”

Sam took over holding Dean’s shirt to the gash, so Dean could wrap his arms around Sam’s shoulders and pull him up. Sam actually managed to support some of his weight once he was standing. They made it back to where he’d parked the Impala without too much difficulty.

“Keep holding that,” Dean ordered as he lowered Sam to the passenger seat.

He got into the driver’s seat and put the car in gear. “Yeah, baby,” he crooned. “I’m back.”

“God, get a room,” Sam grumbled.

And then he promptly ruined the effect by slumping onto Dean’s shoulder.

 

* * *

  
Dean was focused on Sam, on keeping him talking and making sure he kept pressure on the wound, so he didn’t notice the change in scenery until he braked the car and looked up to see that they seemed to have been dropped into the seventeen hundreds.

He blinked.

This was supposed to be _over_. Sam had ganked the ghost, that was it. Dean could see and hear. That meant it had _worked_.

Except, apparently, it hadn’t. Not entirely, not if the cottages and stores with horses tethered outside were any indication.

One thing was certain. They weren’t setting foot in the motel again until this was sorted out. Dean didn’t like roadside surgery, especially when it was Sam he was patching up, but they didn’t have much of a choice.

Dean didn’t see any people. He didn’t wait to find out where they were. He backed the car away from the town and drove a mile or so out before he stopped.

“C’mon,” he grunted, sitting Sam up. “Get out.”

Sam was pliant, letting Dean get him out of the car and sit him down on a grassy knoll. Dean went back for the first-aid kit from the back seat – and _that_ , thank God, was still a normal twenty-first century first-aid kit.

He’d just gotten back to Sam when they heard hoofbeats.

Dean scowled. His gun, which he’d grabbed when he got Sam to the Impala again, was still tucked into his jeans. He pulled it out and stepped in front of his brother.

When the figure of a horseman appeared, this time _with_ the head intact, Dean raised the weapon –

“Wait!” the man cried. “No! Wait! I am not here to harm you. I am not a spirit.”

Dean hesitated.

“Dean… Truth.” Sam tugged at his sleeve. “Dean.”

“Sammy –”

“ _Dean._ No… fog.”

Dean paused. Sam was right. There was none of the fog that had always accompanied the ghost before.

“Do you know what’s going on?” Dean demanded, keeping himself between his brother and the stranger.

“He is injured.” The man gestured at Sam. “Let me help you.”

Dean stiffened. Giving him a hearing was one thing. He wasn’t about to trust this guy near his little brother –

“Please,” the guy said. “He saved me. I owe him a debt of honour. I can help.”

He reached for his belt, and suddenly Dean noticed a scabbard.

“Hey!” he yelled. “Don’t move!”

The guy stopped, hands held up. “I only want to cut myself. To prove myself. Spirits cannot bleed. I promise I mean you no harm.” He nodded at Sam. “I mean _him_ no harm. I want to help.”

He took several steps back and dropped a hand to his sword hilt. When Dean didn’t object, he drew the sword, pulling the edge down his palm. Then he held up his hand so Dean could see the blood.

“You see? I am human.” When Dean nodded, he came closer. “My name is Johann.”

“You –”

“Yes. I was the Hessian of the Hollow. I promise I mean you no harm. I never meant anybody harm. Let me help you. I will tell you everything.”

Slowly, Dean tucked the gun into his jeans again.

“My brother’s hurt.”

“It was not my doing. The man who hurt him is an old enemy of mine as well. I would have helped your brother if I could.” He sighed. “What happened to _you_ was my doing, however unintentional. I am sorry. I am glad you are well.” He nodded at Sam. “You should not do this here. At least let me take you somewhere clean. And safe,” he added, when Dean opened his mouth to object.

“You know somewhere safe?”

Johann smiled. “Follow me.”

 

* * *

  
Dean drove down a winding dirt track, following the figure on the horse, and stopped in a little clearing next to a small but well-kept cottage.

Johann tied his horse to a railing that was clearly meant for the purpose. Then he came to help Dean with Sam. They got him into the cottage, which was empty, and sat him down on a wooden bench.

Johann was an efficient assistant, handing Dean what he needed without being asked, though he did spend a few moments studying the bottle of antiseptic like he hadn’t seen such a thing before. Maybe he hadn’t.

When he’d taped down the last bandage, Dean took the time to look around. The floor was stone, the walls plain brick, undecorated but clean. A few feet away from them was a fireplace with a pot hanging on the hob. A staircase led to what were probably bedrooms upstairs, and through a door on the other side Dean could see an old-fashioned living room.

He turned to Johann.

“Is this your house?”

“Mine? No. It belonged to my… my wife’s grandmother. Nobody lives here now. Lived here. I… Forgive me. You must be curious.”

“You could say so. What’s going on? Are we in the past?”

“We are in your present. Ichabod is responsible for this… this hole in the fabric of time.”

“Ichabod? Ichabod Crane? You know him?”

“I know him. He was the one who cut off my head.”

“Your… OK, this is crazy. The story says you’re the one who killed Ichabod, or gave him a heart attack or whatever. You know, you as a ghost.”

Johann laughed bitterly. “The story says one of the village lads frightened him to death. I wish that were true. Gladly would I have killed Ichabod Crane, killed him ten times over and then again for good measure. But I never had that skill. Perhaps you will help me now.”

“Why would I help you kill Ichabod Crane?”

Johann raised his eyebrows. “You do not have to help, of course. I thought you might want to.” He gestured at Sam, sitting on the bench bruised and bandaged and only half conscious. “Ichabod did that.”

“Ichabod? Not Jed?”

“I do not know any _Jed_ , but I know who attacked your brother. I could never forget that face. It was Ichabod Crane.”

“Why would Ichabod hurt Sam? He _wanted_ us to… you know…”

“To give me rest?” Johann shrugged. “So he did. But he is also afraid of you. Ichabod is fond of letting other people do his work and killing them when their purpose has been served.”

“Ichabod Crane did this?”

“He did.”

Dean cupped Sam’s cheek, tilting his head up to get a better look at his face. Then he turned back to Johann.

“Do normal bullets work on Crane?”

 

* * *

  
Johann provided bowls of stew, and they sat on the ground around the fireplace. Even in late spring, the night was chilly.

“So what’s the story?” Dean asked, once he was sure Sam was awake enough to eat. “Why are you and Crane lifelong enemies? Why’d he cut off your head?”

“And what does it have to do with Washington Irving?” Sam piped up.

Dean laughed. “Geek.”

Johann smiled. “Irving is the one who wrote my story? I… knew him. I could not see, then, I could not hear, but I knew things. Perhaps I sensed them.”

“So… what happened?” Sam asked.

Johann’s smile softened as he studied Sam. “You remind me of…” He broke off, turning to look into the fireplace. “What did Ichabod tell you?”

“He told us about Wanda,” Sam said. “That you loved her, and after you died her father… sent her away.”

“He twisted the truth. It was true I loved Wanda.” He glanced at Sam. “You remind me of her in some ways. She could be fierce, but she believed the best of everyone until they proved her wrong.” He shrugged. “Sometimes even after they proved her wrong. Wanda would have tried to hunt down a ghost that had hurt her brother, and she would have let herself be persuaded that the ghost only needed help.”

“So what happened to her?” Dean asked, jostling Sam’s shoulder lightly.

“I loved her. We…” He turned away, face burning. “There was a child. I know it was wrong, I know it was a sin, but Ichabod wanted her as well, and everybody feared him. I did not know why at the time. The priest would not marry us and risk his anger.”

“And then you and Wanda…”

“If Ichabod had been worthy of her, I would have left her to him and prayed for her happiness. What more did I want? But he only sought her as a prize. He did not love her, he would not have cherished her as she deserved. And then I was ordered to leave with my regiment. Wanda promised to wait for me, but I was afraid I might never return to her, and the night before I left…”

He trailed off, flushing. Sam’s face was scarlet. Dean rolled his eyes.

“We’re all grown men. Move on. You went away to war, and Wanda was left with the baby. Literally.”

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam hissed, and Dean ruffled his hair.

“Eat your stew, kiddo.”

Johann went on, “When Wanda realized she was… expecting a child, she wrote to me at once. We were travelling, and conditions were difficult. It was some weeks before I received her letter. In the meantime, she grew anxious at not having heard from me. She did not fear my faithlessness, you understand. She knew me too well.”

“She thought you were dead,” Sam said quietly.

Johann nodded. “Ichabod came across her one day when she was weeping by herself. She had run into the woods to be alone. He claimed to be her friend and persuaded her to tell him the truth. My poor Wanda was lonely and desperate enough to believe him. She told him everything but the name of her lover.”

“And Ichabod didn’t take it well when he found out?” Dean asked.

“He was furious. His prize had been snatched from him. It hurt his pride. He went straight to Wanda’s father and told him everything that my love had confided to him. They both believed I was the father of her child, but without Wanda’s word for it they had no proof. And she refused to admit it, however much they pressed her. She thought I was dead; she wanted no dishonour brought to my name.”

Dean felt Sam shift next to him, and wrapped an arm around his brother. The kid had always been a sucker for tragic life stories.

Johann shot them a sad smile. “When she persisted in concealing my name, her father turned her out. She was trying to make her way to her grandmother’s cottage – to this place, where she hoped to be greeted with kindness – but she lost her way in the dark, and tumbled into the river.”

“Did Ichabod push her?” Dean demanded.

“I do not know. If he did, I have no evidence. I eventually received Wanda’s letter. Naturally, I left my regiment and rode straight back to her. I was too late. By the time I returned, she was dead. They had buried her at the crossroads. The priest said he suspected suicide. No doubt Ichabod ordered it.”

“Why was he scared of Ichabod?” Dean asked. “If we know that…”

“If you know that, you will know how to kill him.” Johann shook his head. “I have learnt things over the centuries. Ichabod is… You must have guessed it by now. Ichabod is immortal.”

“What happened to _you_?” Sam asked. “After you came back and found Wanda dead?”

“I went to Ichabod. I challenged him, for my honour and the life of my love and my unborn child. He accepted. When we met…” Johann looked into the fire. “He never intended to answer my challenge like a gentleman. He had men with him. Hired men. They held me still, and he shot me through the heart. Then he cut off my head, and…” Johann grimaced. “You know the rest of the story. I could not find rest until my head and body were reunited. And, apparently, burned.” He smiled at Sam. “Thank you.”

Dean tightened his arm around Sam.

“If he knew where you were buried… Why didn’t he tell us?”

“Suspicious,” Sam mumbled. Dean considered that for a moment, and then nodded. It probably would have made them suspicious if Ichabod had had too many answers. He’d counted on Sam being a kickass hunter, giving it his all when his big brother’s life was on the line, and he’d been right.

“What’s happening now?”

“Dead, I frightened Ichabod more than I ever had alive. He fled from me when he saw me. He did not leave the town at first. Years later there was another girl… Katrina, the schoolmaster’s daughter. She was nothing like Wanda, she was proud and brash where my Wanda had been gentle and innocent. But for all that, Katrina was a harmless girl, and I could not allow Ichabod to ruin another life. I could not harm him, but I harried him. Eventually he gave up. He left the town and moved to a small cottage deep in the woods. The townspeople were persuaded that he had been taken by the Hessian of the Hollow.”

“Does he still live there?”

“No. When enough time had passed for the town to have forgotten him, he returned, changed his name, and lived among them. I had not found rest after Ichabod’s disappearance, but I had ceased to ride abroad. One day, some years ago – not many – a dog digging in the dirt disturbed my grave. That woke me again.” Johann looked guilty. “I believe I hurt the man who owned the dog, though I did not intend to. I could not see or hear or speak, but I could sense things. I could sense what Ichabod was doing.”

“Did you… kill them too? All the people you touched?”

“My touch harmed people, but it did not kill. That was Ichabod. I thought at first it was mercy, but I soon realized he was trying to attract the attention of hunters. He wanted them to finish me.”

Sam moved again. He was practically _snuggled_ against Dean’s side, and if the kid hadn’t been hurt Dean would totally not have been allowing this. But he thought having been roughed up by an immortal douchebag entitled Sammy to a little leeway.

“Just for tonight,” Dean muttered, trying to summon a scowl. He gave up when Sam grinned at him, all adoring little brother, and settled for rolling his eyes. “Whatever, princess.”

Johann was watching them with a slight, amused smile, which widened when he met Dean’s eyes. “Wanda was much the same,” he said. “Nobody could refuse her anything.”

“I always knew Sam was a girl.”

Johann laughed, and sobered quickly. “When I woke again, I realized Ichabod was… busy. I was drawn to him, in a way.”

Dean felt Sam stiffen.

“Sammy?”

“So that’s what this is about,” Sam said quietly, meeting Johann’s eyes. Ichabod’s a witch. Isn’t he?”

[ **  
**](http://collegeboy-spn.livejournal.com/33119.html)


	7. Do Your Thing

**[  
](http://collegeboy-spn.livejournal.com/31338.html)**

Sam’s words hung in the silence for a moment before Johann responded with a sharp nod.

“He was a witch. A true witch. That was why they feared him. If he had been a charlatan, babbling Latin and relying on the superstitious minds of the townsfolk, he would have been tried and convicted. But he was – is – a true witch, a powerful witch, and nobody has dared to stop him.”

Dean scowled. “I hate witches.”

“I don’t understand,” Sam said. “Why is he doing… this?”

“Trying to restore the past. I believe Wanda’s death unhinged him. He never loved her, but he _wanted_ her. She was to have been his greatest prize. Perhaps that was as close as he could come to love.”

“So he’s trying to turn the present into the past?” Dean asked.

“Yes. He has been trying for some time. It is not easy, and it becomes more difficult the further back in the past one goes. That was why nobody noticed at first; he could not make it stay, and he could only turn back the clock by a few years. When he grew stronger, I did as well. He feared me. Whenever he began, I would sense it, and hunt him down.”

“You could hunt him even though you couldn’t see?”

“He took my life. I could always sense him. This time I was not there to stop him – oh, I do not blame you,” Johann said, when Sam looked guilty. “You gave me peace. And I would not have wanted to be riding against Ichabod Crane forever. It is best this way, Sam. This way, perhaps we have a hope of defeating him.”

“Do we?” Sam whispered.

“This takes effort, and he cannot entirely control it. He is at his weakest now.”

“How exactly does this work?” questioned Dean. “Are you… alive?”

“In a way. I am not a ghost. I am an… an echo of myself. There are others. Not the entire population of the town, of course. That would be far too much effort. But those Ichabod knew. I am certain he meant to resurrect Wanda as well, but she is not here. I would know it if she were. He will keep trying until he succeeds.”

“Will any of the people he’s brought back help us?”

Johann gave a short, sharp laugh. “Help? They all fear him. Do not look for aid, Dean. You can only rely on yourselves.”

“And _you_?”

“I will help you. For what he did to Wanda, to me, I will help you.”

“Great. Do you know where he lives?”

“Yes, but we should wait until morning. The woods can be treacherous at night. And Sam will be better for some rest. He will not find us here. We will be safe.”

 

* * *

  
Safe or not, Dean didn’t want to stay indoors in case things started to turn bizarre again. He wasn’t even sure how _they_ were still around; they seemed to be the only people from the present in this place, like Ichabod’s spell had erased everyone else.

Ichabod’s spell must have been what had removed Jed’s friend Mark, but what had happened to him? Was he somewhere in this time? Was he dead, or trapped in some sort of limbo that he couldn’t escape until the spell was broken altogether? And how had he and Sam, and the Impala, survived intact and fully functional? The Impala was running fine, and she would as long as the gas lasted. But nothing else from the future had made it…

No. They were definitely camping outdoors. At least it would be easier to get to the car if they had to.

“Stay here,” he told Sam. “I’m going to get some stuff from the car.” He glanced at Johann. “Keep an eye on him?”

“Hey!” Sam protested, just as Johann said, “Of course.”

Dean went to the Impala and popped the trunk. Something white flashed in the moonlight as he opened it. He stared at it for a moment before he realized what it was.

Sam, during their last run-in with a demon, had drawn Devil’s Traps on the inside of the trunk, both the underside of the lid and the bottom of the trunk. He would have drawn them on the outside if Dean had let him. There were lines of Latin, too, exorcisms and protective rituals. It was a supernatural lockbox.

And _that_ was how the car had come through unscathed. Somewhere in Sam’s chalk lines and painstakingly written-out incantations was something that had kept the Impala, and by extension everything in it, including him and Sam, safe from the side-effects of Ichabod’s spell. Mark had disappeared, after all, and Sam and Dean had been fine –

Like a dream, Dean remembered Mark pressing at an invisible barrier. He hadn’t been able to _leave_. But _they_ had, in the car.

Dean let out a breath. He was _never_ giving Sam a hard time about his geekiness again.

Maybe they’d be better off sleeping in the car?

No, they’d done that two nights already. And Sam was hurt. It wouldn’t help him any to have to spend another night scrunched up in the Impala.

Dean dug a couple of sticks of chalk out of the non-equipment duffel, grabbed some blankets, and went back inside and into the kitchen.

Sam was still sitting where Dean had left him on the floor. Johann was by the window, looking out anxiously.

“Change of plan,” Dean announced. “We can stay here.” He put the chalk in Sam’s hand. “Lock down the room. Whatever you did to the Impala to make it demon-proof when we went to Charleston.”

Sam looked startled, and then his eyes widened in understanding. He took the chalk and got to his feet.

Dean watched him critically. He seemed stiff, which was to be expected, but he was managing. He’d be all right after a night’s sleep, or at least he’d be capable of defending himself. They were taking a week off when this was over, though. Maybe two weeks. Nothing but pizza and beer and bad movies, and if Sam started lecturing Dean about his arteries, Dean was going to tie him down and force-feed him.

By the time Sam finished, there was a light sheen of sweat on his face.

Dean didn’t bother to hide his concern. Johann had gone to check on his horse, and even if he’d been around it wouldn’t have mattered. Dean couldn’t have said _why_ he trusted the guy except that he seemed genuinely concerned about Sam.

“Get some rest,” he ordered, spreading one of the blankets in the middle of the floor. It wasn’t exactly the Ritz, but it beat sleeping in the car.

Sam just stood there.

“Sammy? What’s wrong?”

“You got me a blanket.”

“I got you two, actually, but that’s not an answer.”

Sam gave an impatient shake of his head, like he thought Dean was being deliberately dense. “I thought – when he was attacking me – I thought I’d screwed it up and I wouldn’t be able to put the Horseman back together and I thought you were going to _die_.”

Oh.

_Oh._

No wonder the poor kid looked so lost.

Dean shrugged and half-raised his arms. Sam didn’t need another invitation. He flung himself into them, or came as close to flinging himself as he could when he was just about managing to walk.

“C’mon, kiddo.”

Dean’s own exhaustion was hitting him. He’d been through a lot, too, and he was tired, and he wasn’t going to be able to support Sam’s weight through the imminent collapse.

He lowered them both to the ground. Sam curled into him, probably listening for his heartbeat or something equally ridiculous, but Dean didn’t have the heart to stop him. He’d’ve been doing the same if their positions had been reversed.

He didn’t say anything until he realized Sam’s shoulders were shaking and his shirt was getting damp under Sam’s cheek.

_Crap._

“Hey. Sammy. Settle down. I’m fine. You saved me. I’m _fine_. I’m better than you are, right now. You did it. You saved Johann and you saved me, and now we’re going to get rid of Ichabod and save everyone else.”

“I thought you were going to _die_.”

The kid had a point. “Fine. Free pass just for tonight, yeah?”

Sam made a choked sound that might have been a laugh or a sob, and clutched tighter.

 

* * *

  
On the plus side, when Johann came back ten minutes later, Sam was finally asleep.

On the minus side, when Johann came back ten minutes later, Sam was finally asleep. Dean could really have used his help figuring out why the former Headless Horseman’s mouth was set in a grim line.

Johann’s scowl softened a little as he threw his hat down on the table.

“How is he?” he asked, nodding at Sam.

“He’ll be fine in the morning.”

“Good. We will have to move quickly once the sun is up.” Johann’s eyes were still on Sam. Dean felt a prickle of discomfort at the intensity of his gaze. “He reminds me so much of Wanda.”

Dean had never heard such wistfulness, and he felt a pang for the other man.

“Well… You’ll see her again, right? When we… finish this? Or is she…”

Dean didn’t want to finish the sentence. Whether Wanda had been killed, committed suicide, or accidentally drowned while on the run from a deranged lunatic, the possibility of her having lingered as a ghost was strong.

He wasn’t prepared for the look of pain that crossed Johann’s face.

“What?” he asked uneasily.

“She… She turned into a spirit as well. And she – it was not her fault.” There was urgency and desperation in his voice. “If she had been the only one to die she might have found peace, but the _child_ …”

Sitting on that uncomfortable stone floor with his hand in Sam’s hair, Dean couldn’t even pretend not to understand.

“Is she… Does she still…”

Johann shook his head. “No more. I do not know what happened. I can only believe that one of your kind helped her pass on. I hope it was one who understood her sorrows and did not simply see her as a manifestation of evil.”

Dean didn’t bother telling him that the only hunter likely to “understand the sorrows” of the things he hunted was Sam, and Dean was pretty sure Sam had never ganked a ghost in Sleepy Hollow. If it made him feel better to believe that his girlfriend had been laid to rest by some bleeding-heart who cared about her…

“So what are we doing in the morning?” he asked, to change the subject. “Where exactly do we go to hunt Ichabod down?”

“I know his home. But there is an old barn on his property that he uses – _used_ – for his dark arts. He must be there, trying to resurrect Wanda, to push the world far enough into the past for that to happen.”

“The… Wait a second. He can’t do this to the entire _world_ , right?”

Johann shook his head with a wry smile. “I misspoke. Only the town and some of the surrounding lands and farms.” He got to his feet. “You should sleep, Dean. We will have to leave before dawn.”

Dean laughed, lying back and tugging Sam’s head up to rest on his shoulder. They didn’t have pillows, after all, and the last thing he needed was to hear Sam bitching about backache.

“Trust me, I’m used to early mornings.”

 

* * *

  
They made an early start the next morning, Sam clearly still in some pain but steady enough on his feet that Dean was willing to get going. They’d rest later.

Johann went first, leading the way on his horse just like he’d done the previous night. The path was broad; apparently it was normally a cart-track. Dean _really_ hoped they didn’t run across any carts.

Sam was quiet. Not sulking or broody quiet, just sort of thoughtful. Dean let him be. He would have his head in the game when they got to Ichabod’s hideout, he always did. In the meantime if he wanted to put his brain to work figuring out stuff, Dean wasn’t going to complain.

With half his attention on his brother, Dean didn’t see the bundle lying on the path until Johann’s horse reared.

He braked quickly, exchanging a glance with Sam as they scrambled out.

Johann was struggling to stay in his saddle a few yards ahead of them, stroking his horse and trying to calm it. They ducked around him.

There was a man on the ground. He was on his stomach. There was a large dark spot on the ground under him, a pool of deep red spreading from somewhere in the region of his abdomen.

And then there were running footsteps, and a hoarse, guttural scream that seemed filled with all the sorrow and despair that existed in the world.

A man was running towards them from the opposite direction – Jed.

Dean barely had time to register that it was Mark bleeding out on the ground before Jed screamed again, and Dean couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for him.

For once Jed ignored them both, falling to his knees by the injured man.

“ _Mark!_ God, _no_!”

Jed was reaching for him, turning him over. Sam stepped forward to protest, but Dean stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“It’s dangerous to move him,” Sam hissed. “He might make the injuries worse.”

“Doesn’t matter, kiddo. He’s gone. We’re in the eighteenth century. There’s no hospital, no ambulance that can get out here, no modern medicine until we deal with Ichabod. He isn’t going to last that more than a couple of minutes now.”

Jed was bending over his friend, sobbing and pleading, shaking him desperately.

Sam turned away, walking around Johann. The horse had quietened, but Johann hadn’t dismounted. He was staring at the scene before him like he couldn’t help himself.

Mark was breathing too harshly, too slowly.

Dean let out a frustrated breath. Whatever kind of douchebag Jed was – and in Dean’s opinion, there was no word in any language strong enough to describe the kind of douchebag Jed was – it went against every fibre to _see_ him sobbing over his dying friend and do nothing to help.

But, as he’d told Sam, there was nothing they _could_ do.

He ducked around Johann and went to Sam. The kid’s breath was hitching. Dean couldn’t do anything about Mark, but he could stand close enough for Sam to grab a fistful of his jacket, close enough that when Jed’s rough, choked sobs made Sam drop his head, Dean’s shoulder was already there to support it.

 

* * *

  
“I can take you to Ichabod Crane.”

Dean felt Sam stiffen against him as Jed’s voice cut through the silence.

“What are you talking about?” Sam demanded. “You know him?”

“I was working with him.”

“You were…”

Dean started forward angrily, but Sam held him back. On Sam’s other side, Johann just glared at Jed.

“You know what Ichabod’s doing?” Sam asked. “He’s completely insane! Why would you _help_ him?”

“He said he could get me out – _us_ out.” Jed glanced over his shoulder at Mark’s body, a sobering reminder that Ichabod had killed before and would be willing to kill again. “It’s not like I’ve been plotting world domination with him or anything. I didn’t even know him till a couple of days ago.”

“Anytime you feel like getting to the point,” Dean snapped. “Not like we’re racing against the clock trying to stop a deranged lunatic here.”

“Look, I drugged the kid and I’m sure that upset you, but I don’t know what else you expected! Clearly you’ve known each other a while, and you were probably trying to hustle us that night. And he was acting like somebody’s lost pet. He was ripe for the taking. He was _asking_ for it.”

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Dean snarled, “try to justify _drugging_ Sam and –”

“ _Justify?_ You think I care if you _forgive_ me? I owe the two of you a beat-down and if I meet you _tomorrow_ you’ll get it. If I meet _him_ down a dark alley –”

Sam grabbed Dean’s arm just in time to stop him from lunging at Jed.

“OK,” he said firmly. “We get it. You hate us, we hate you, and if we meet at any other time under any other circumstances, all bets are off. But right now we have a common enemy. Are you going to help us, or do we need to leave you tied to a tree?”

Jed took a deep breath and nodded.

“Ichabod Crane killed my best friend. I’ll help.”

“Great. What do you know?”

“He came to me a couple of days ago. I thought he was crazy, man, who’d believe this Harry Potter crap about witches and magic? Told him he’d been smoking too much of the bad weed. Then he turned my car into a horse wagon. I believed him after that. The deal was simple. I did some odd jobs for him, helped him eliminate the two of you when the time came, and he’d see Mark and me safely out and give us a pile of eighteenth-century gold for our trouble. It was just for a few days, who’d say no to that deal?”

“A man of honour would have done!” Johann snapped. He’d been quiet all this time, but apparently that last remark was too much for him.

“He drugged Sammy,” Dean explained to Jed. “He doesn’t _have_ honour. What he has is me about to kill him unless he starts saying something _useful_ instead of stupid attempts at explaining away what he’s done.”

“Guys,” Sam muttered. “Not helping. Jed, there’s only going to be so long I can keep Dean from breaking your nose, so talk fast.”

“Mark wanted out. He thought it was too freaky, what Ichabod was doing. Didn’t want to be mixed up in it. He told him, and Ichabod clearly didn’t take it too well.”

“Where is Ichabod?” Johann asked. “At the old barn?”

“I don’t know if it’s the same one you mean, but he’s in a barn, yeah. Got himself locked down with all kinds of magical booby traps. You can’t just charge in guns blazing.” Jed smirked. “Fortunately for you, I have a plan.”

 

* * *

  
“I hate this plan,” Dean growled.

“Dean.”

“Shut up, Sammy. I don’t know how I let you talk me into agreeing. It’s a stupid plan. It’s way too risky. We’re not doing this.”

“We don’t have a choice. I hate to say it, but Jed’s right. We have no idea what Ichabod’s done to protect himself. If we go in without preparation we’ll just wind up getting killed.”

“So the alternative is to send you in to get killed first? Wow. That’s awesome. Why didn’t I think of that?”

“Dean.” Sam patted his arm. “I don’t think he’s going to kill me. Not immediately, anyway. If he’d wanted me dead, he wouldn’t have left me alive by Johann’s grave.”

“I don’t see why I can’t go in. You’re still in pain from everything else, don’t deny it.”

“I’m not denying it. But that’s _why_ I need to go in. You’re fine, you’re a kickass hunter, and you can come in and rescue me when it all goes to hell.”

“So you admit this is going to hell.”

“This is us, Dean. Of _course_ it won’t go according to plan. It’s OK. You and Johann will be right outside.”

“But –”

“Let’s just try.”

“There aren’t even cell phone towers in this stupid time. I can’t even _call_ you.”

“Hey.” Sam gripped his shoulders. “Look. I’m not saying I trust Jed. He’s still as skeevy as they come. And I’m not saying it’s a great plan, and if it were you going in I’d probably hate it even more than you do now. But Jed wants to kill Ichabod even more than we do, and right now this is the best plan we’ve got.”

“You just get in and figure out a way to break whatever protective spells he’s put on the building, so Johann and I can get in. No heroics and no stupid risks.”

“Nothing stupid, I promise.”

“OK.” Dean squeezed Sam’s shoulder, holding his gaze for a moment before turning to Jed. “Hey. Douchebag.”

“Dean,” Sam hissed.

“Insulting the man who’s going to be holding your brother’s life in his hands?” Jed said. “Not smart.”

“I’m only going to say this once, so you listen really carefully. I don’t trust you an inch, and if I had any choice, anything at all, I’d take it. So here’s how it’s going to work. I come in, I find Sam in _exactly_ the same shape he’s in now. If _anything_ happens to him, if I see any new bruises or blood or so much as a freaking paper cut, I will feed you your spleen. Am I making myself clear?”

“Crystal,” Jed said coolly. “Sam?”

Quietly, Sam held out his hands and let Jed wrap a thin rope around his wrists.

“Not too tight,” Dean said. “Don’t cut off the circulation.”

“He might look it, but he’s _not_ a twelve-year-old girl. We need to make this _real_.”

“Doesn’t mean you need to give him rope burn!”

“Dean,” Sam said quietly. Dean shook his head. Sam turned to Jed and Johann. “Can you give us a minute?” They walked away, Jed scowling at Sam and Johann scowling at Jed. Sam sighed and turned to Dean. “Come on, Dean. It’s going to be fine.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one letting your brother walk into God knows what. With that son of a bitch who’s going to sell you out. I _know_ he is.”

Sam shrugged. “You’re probably right. But it doesn’t matter.” He smiled at Dean, the smile that always made Dean feel like he was Superman. “You’ll make sure I don’t get hurt.”

Dean forced himself to smile. “Damn straight I will. Now go in there and do your thing.”


	8. Believe Me, I Know

**[  
](http://collegeboy-spn.livejournal.com/31338.html)**

Jed dragged Sam to within ten yards of the barn door, shoving hard enough that Sam knew he was being deliberately rough. They didn’t go in, though; Jed stopped just short of a line made of some kind of fine grey powder. It began to fizzle and hiss when they neared it.

Jed yelled, “Mr. Crane!”

Ichabod appeared in the doorway. “You have him. Excellent.”

“Can I bring him in?”

“Unless you want to suffer a horrific and painful death, stay on _that_ side of the line. You’ll need a talisman to cross it. Wait a moment.”

He disappeared inside, coming back a few minutes later with two charms dangling on silver chains, which he tossed to Jed.

“Put one on, put one on him, and bring him inside,” Ichabod ordered. “I need him to reset this to the precise year I need and make it permanent.”

Jed scowled. “You said I’d –”

“You’ll be able to leave,” Ichabod snapped dismissively. “Don’t worry. Help me with this and I’ll get you out.”

“Like you got Mark out?”

“Your friend Mark was turning into a threat. He had scruples. From what I understand of it, you haven’t any. Now hurry up. I’ll need some help.”

 

* * *

  
Dean watched from the trees as a guy – presumably Ichabod; Dean had never _seen_ him before – came out of the barn and spoke to Jed. He couldn’t hear what was being said, but he didn’t like Ichabod’s sneer or the cool, calculating way he looked at Sam.

He scowled when Jed put some sort of _something_ around his neck, and another around Sam’s. If that was what they needed to get in, this was going to be harder than Dean had thought.

Then Jed shoved Sam over the line, and Dean’s blood was boiling at the sight of the douchebag pushing his baby brother around. He was pretty sure the way Sam got knocked sideways into the barn door wasn’t an accident, or the way Jed yanked him up by his bound hands, wrenching them hard enough to make Sam wince.

Then they disappeared into the barn and the door shut behind them. Dean’s scowl deepened as he settled down to wait.

 

* * *

  
Ichabod had Jed tie Sam’s hands behind him instead of in front, and then the two of them forced Sam to his knees in front of some kind of circular symbol he didn’t recognize. There was a bowl in the centre of the circle, with a piece of paper in it, a bone that had probably come from some small animal, a bunch of pale green leaves, and a small rosary.

It looked like a spell awaiting the final ingredient.

Sam shivered. He had a feeling he knew what that ingredient was going to be.

He _really_ hoped they hadn’t made a mistake trusting Jed.

A few feet away, there was an altar. Probably what Ichabod was using for this thing, and that would be what they had to destroy to break the spell.

Now he just needed to get word to Dean. And give him the talisman somehow.

“Don’t move,” Ichabod ordered, cutting into his thoughts. “I’ll shoot you long before you manage to do any harm.”

“You have guns?”

Ichabod grinned unpleasantly. “I could have a Tardis if I wanted. But this is my weapon of choice…” He pulled a gleaming weapon out of his coat. “Nineteenth century. There’s a certain elegance to this, don’t you think?”

Sam bit his lip. There was, _maybe_ , another way. He was here. There was the altar. He could upset it, if he could only reach it. It would flip the clock back to where it should be –

And Sam had taken a couple of precautionary measures. There was a little square of cardboard in his pocket, and he’d slipped one into Dean’s. The writing and symbols on them were tiny, they had to be to fit, but they would probably be enough.

But that depended on Ichabod letting his guard down, even just a little. Right now, he’d put a bullet in Sam’s head long before Sam got anywhere _near_ the altar.

Ichabod must have sensed his thoughts, because he made an impatient face, hauling Sam back and shoving him into a chair. Sam landed awkwardly, and his arms ached as Ichabod wrenched them over the chair back and looped a length of rope between it and his bound wrists.

“Keep an eye on him,” Ichabod ordered Jed.

Sam winced. _Jed._ He hadn’t thought about him. He and Dean would come through it if Sam just wrecked the altar, but Jed almost certainly wouldn’t. And it wasn’t like Sam _liked_ the guy, but…

Ichabod walked out purposefully.

Jed waited to hear the barn door close and then turned to Sam. “What now?”

Sam almost asked him to topple the altar, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t make Jed sign his own death warrant.

“Take the talismans and toss them out the window,” he said. “Beyond the line we crossed.”

“Don’t we need them?”

“We’re inside now. I don’t think it matters. Do it.”

That would let Dean come in, and then… Then they’d figure it out.

Jed slipped his own talisman up over his head before he reached out for Sam’s. He pulled it up roughly, and it caught at Sam’s hair on the way.

“Oops,” Jed growled, not sounding sorry. “That’s why you shouldn’t have such pretty, girl hair.”

Sam glared at him. “Just get them out.”

Jed went to the window, drew back his arm, and flung the two talismans outside. Sam saw the glinting silver arcing through the air, landing in the grass several feet on the other side of Ichabod’s grey line.

Perfect.

And that, of course, was when it all went to hell.

 

* * *

  
Dean was watching anxiously, and the moment he saw the glint of silver sail out the window and land on the ground, he nudged Johann. 

“C’mon. Let’s go.”

 

* * *

  
“Oh, _boys_.”

Ichabod’s voice was mocking, but not surprised. Sam winced.

Crap.

Crap crap _crap_.

“I thought you’d try _something_ ,” Ichabod said, walking into the room with his gun trained on Jed. “But I didn’t think it would be so _obvious_. And honestly, _you_.” He waved his gun at Jed. “Job or Jack or whatever you call yourself, did you honestly think I’d believe that you got the jump on a Winchester? Please.”

“Winchester?” Jed grunted. “I thought his name was –”

“Johnson? Hamill? Yeti? Oh, he calls himself lots of things, but his name is Sam Winchester. And he’s smart, but not as smart as me. So, Jeff –”

“ _Jed._ ”

“Whatever. I’ll make a deal with you. I know you’re sore about your friend Mark. I can bring him back, send you both out of here. I’m only covering a fifty-mile radius with the spell. Once you’re out, you’re fine.”

“You’ll bring Mark back? How?”

“Let me worry about that.”

After a moment, Jed said, “Fine. What do I do?”

Ichabod beamed. “I knew you’d see sense. Untie Sam – keep his hands tied, though, and you might want to drug him first to be on the safe side – and take him over there.” He gestured at the symbols on the floor. “Cut his throat, and I need his lifeblood in the bowl.”

Jed scowled. “I’m not saying I’m against killing the kid, but do we have to do this voodoo crap?”

“That depends. How desperately do you want to return to your own time with all your limbs intact?” Jed flinched, and Ichabod rolled his eyes and went on, “The box on that table behind you has some hypodermics from your time. Get one and plunge it in.”

 

* * *

  
Dean forced himself to keep his gaze away from the window. If he saw Ichabod hurting Sam, he wouldn’t be able to focus.

He snatched up the talismans, handed one to Johann, and slipped the other over his own head.

“You go to the front,” he said softly. “I’ll go round the back. First priority, make sure Sam’s OK. Then kill Ichabod.”

 

* * *

  
Sam’s head was spinning. He tried to resist, but his limbs were heavy, and his attempts at shoving Jed off him only made the other man laugh.

He couldn’t even entirely blame Jed. Ichabod _had_ made him an offer that was going to be pretty damn hard to refuse.

He looked up, trying to read Jed’s expression.

Jed laughed again. Unpleasantly. “What? You think those big eyes are going to work on me? I need to get back home, and one way or another you’re going to help me do it.” He shoved Sam to his knees and spoke again, to Ichabod this time. “This is it, right? I bleed him, he dies, and Mark and I are home free?”

“Precisely,” Ichabod agreed. “Give me a minute.” He held up a stopwatch. “Pick up that bottle. When I say _go_ , empty it into the bowl. Then you have around two minutes to get the boy set up. I’ll count down from ten. You kill him when I say zero and not a second before.”

 

* * *

  
Dean cursed when his second attempt at kicking the door down just made his toe hurt.

Sam was on the other side, and Dean was supposed to be _rescuing_ him, and now he’d have to pick the damn rusty ancient lock like they hadn’t wasted enough time already.

He hoped Johann was having better luck with the front door.

 

* * *

  
The contents of the bowl bubbled unpleasantly. In front of him, Ichabod held a small phial, ready to break it and complete the spell as soon as –

Jed’s heavy hand was on his neck.

“Another minute,” announced Ichabod.

Sam felt cold steel on his throat. He tried to jerk himself away, but he could only manage a faint twitch.

The door crashed inward.

Johann was standing there, holding a rifle pointing straight at Jed.

“Let him go,” he ordered.

Jed scowled, shifting around so Sam was between him and Johann.

“Like hell I will. He’s my ticket out of here.”

“Touch him and I will kill you.”

“You will not.” That was Ichabod’s voice, and Johann turned to him with an expression of disgust. Ichabod just looked amused as he went on. “You will not attempt to stop me, because if I complete my spell, Wanda will live again. Wanda – and the child who never saw the light of day. You want that. I know you do.”

“You lie,” hissed Johann.

“Why would you think that?” Ichabod shook his head sadly. “That’s ridiculous. Why have I gone through this entire process if not to bring Wanda back and give her the world she should have had?”

“You’re crazy,” Sam said, despite the cold steel against his neck.

“Maybe. But effective, don’t you think?”

Johann’s grip on his gun was wavering. “You truly expect me to believe you will restore Wanda to me?”

“Not to _you_. I’m going to kill _you._ Again. But I will restore her. And the child. You don’t have to do anything. Just let me kill the boy.” He waved a hand in Sam’s direction. “It’s a small sacrifice to make for Wanda’s life.”

Johann wet his lips.

“Don’t,” Sam said desperately, wishing his thoughts were clearer. As it was, he could just hope that Johann would understand why it was a colossally bad idea, one that would only make Wanda unhappy in the end. “Please… Trust me. Don’t.”

“He’s begging for his own pathetic life,” Ichabod growled. “You say you love Wanda. Doesn’t she deserve another chance? And what about your child? The poor thing never had a chance to live.”

Johann met Sam’s eyes as he lowered his gun. “Forgive me, Sam.”

Ichabod smiled in triumph _._ “Ready, Jake? Remember, do it on zero.” Jed snarled wordlessly and pressed the blade to Sam’s neck hard enough to draw a trickle of blood. “ _Ten._ ”

Where was Dean?

“ _Nine._ ”

_Crap._

 

* * *

  
It took precious seconds, but Dean managed to get the door open. He slipped through it softly – might as well use whatever advantage he had – through a long row of stalls.

He could see the scene unfolding through the door. Sam on his knees, Jed behind him with a knife to his throat. Ichabod at his altar. Johann, rifle hanging loose from his fingers, looking horribly guilty and apologetic.

Dean didn’t bother trying to figure things out. Ichabod had started to count down from ten, and Dean wasn’t about to wait to find out what would happen when he hit zero.

He raised his gun and fired.

 

* * *

  
Just as Ichabod said, “ _Zero_ ,” the world erupted in chaos.

There was a series of bangs, and the knife fell away from Sam’s throat a second before something heavy slammed into his back. He reeled under the weight.

“Dean?” he gasped.

“Sammy! You OK?”

“Forgive me.” That was Johann, hauling Jed off him and heaving him onto the ground. Sam took a look at Jed’s face and grimaced. He didn’t have much of a face left; Dean had put at least three bullets in his head. “Forgive me, Sam, that was unpardonable. I do not know…” He wrapped an arm around Sam’s shoulders to support him as he tugged him to his feet. “I am so sorry, though I know words can never be enough.”

“Hey!” Dean snapped. “Apologize later. Is he OK?”

Johann’s fingers were on his neck, wiping away blood to check the cut.

“A shallow wound,” he said. “It will not even scar. Sam, you must sit.”

“No – Ichabod –”

“Dean and I will handle him.”

And then the ground began to shake.

Sam stared down, at the symbols at his feet, glowing blinding white, and it took a moment for him to register what he was seeing. The bowl was full of blood. Not Sam’s blood. Jed’s. Dean had shot him, he’d fallen forward onto Sam, blood pouring into the bowl –

Oh _God_. Jed’s lifeblood in the bowl. That meant Ichabod’s spell was working.

“Dean!” Sam said. “Altar!”

But Ichabod had a gun of his own, and he raised it, pointing straight at Dean. “Don’t you _dare_ ,” he hissed.

Dean dove for the altar, and Sam shoved Johann off him and dove for Dean.

Ichabod’s gun went off, and the altar, even as it toppled, was spattered with blood.

 

* * *

  
Dean knew right away that the blood wasn’t his. He twisted around, just managing to catch Sam before he fell.

“Sammy!”

Sam’s wide hazel eyes met his, and Dean could read shock and pain. But there was no time –

He lowered Sam quickly to the ground, patting his arm in silent apology for the rough treatment, and turned around just in time to tackle Ichabod before he could fire again.

Ichabod flung him off, and the altar came flying at his head. Dean ducked out of the way.

There was another shot. Ichabod stopped moving, eyes wide and disbelieving as a red spot spread on his chest. He stood upright for a moment before he collapsed to his knees and then toppled forward onto the ground.

Dean stared across the barn at Johann holding a still-smoking rifle.

“That was for Wanda,” he said simply.

Dean nodded. “Fair enough. He was a creep anyway.”

They hurried back to Sam together, kneeling on either side of him. Johann looked around as Dean helped Sam sit up.

“It appears we broke the spell.”

Dean glanced up. The barn was gone. They were in an empty field, a sign stuck in the ground a few feet away saying that there was going to be a new housing project there. Fortunately construction hadn’t started yet, so there was nobody around. The Impala was where Dean had left her, now on the shoulder of the road.

He stared at Johann. “How are you still here? For that matter, how are we? That Mark guy didn’t come back the first time. I thought we’d have to do something else to get back to our time.”

“Just like Impala,” Sam mumbled into Dean’s jacket.

Dean frowned, and then his brow cleared and he thrust his hand into his pocket in sudden realization. His fingers encountered a rectangle of hard cardboard.

He slipped it out. One of Sam’s – or rather Agent Roarke’s – FBI business cards. He flipped it over. The back was covered with symbols and Latin in Sam’s cramped handwriting.

“Probably slipped you one, too,” Dean commented to Johann.

Johann fumbled in his coat, and found another of the cards. He turned it over in his hands, looking down at it for a moment, before he spoke to Sam. “I do not belong here as you and your brother do.”

Sam nodded.

“So if I… relinquish this… I move on?”

“Yeah.”

“What will happen to me?”

“I don’t know,” Sam admitted quietly.

“You were a ghost,” Dean explained, to save Sam talking. “Nobody’s really sure what happens to ghosts when they pass on.”

“Will I see Wanda again?”

“I think so.”

Johann nodded, looking away for a moment before turning to Sam again. He looked a little uncomfortable.

“Normally,” Dean said, “I’d step away discreetly at this point. But I’m pretty sure Sam’s going to faceplant if I do that. So just pretend I’m not here, OK?”

Johann smiled, half-amused and half-rueful. “Sam… You saved me. Thank you.” He reached out to clasp Sam’s hand briefly. “Whatever happens now, I am grateful to you.” He clapped Dean on the shoulder. “And to you, Dean. Goodbye.”

Dean nodded, shifting Sam into a more comfortable position as Johann took a couple of steps back and slowly, slowly, dropped the small white card onto the grass.

 

* * *

  
Sam tried to get comfortable. It was difficult, because the bullet wound hurt like a bitch, but the doctor had been nice enough to let Dean stay while she worked. He was sitting on a chair drawn up to the narrow ER bed, his hand on Sam’s shoulder to ground him.

“Do you think Fred’s OK?” Sam mumbled.

“I’m sure he’s fine. Crane was too busy to go after him. But we’ll check on him. As soon as you’re on your feet again, so shut up and let the nice doctor do her job.”

“Hold him down,” the doctor told Dean. Sam could hear the amusement in her voice. “I think there’s a fragment of the bullet still inside. It doesn’t seem to be causing any major problems – yet – but it’ll hurt when I pull it out.”

Sam tried not to squirm, but he couldn’t help flinching when she probed with her forceps. Dean whispered soothing nonsense that would have pissed Sam off at any other time, unyielding hands holding him still for the doctor.

“So how did this happen, anyway?” she asked Dean.

Sam thought vaguely that he should be annoyed at how they were talking over his head, but his mind was in a weird place where it couldn’t decide whether to focus on the pain from the doctor’s forceps or the relief of Dean _alive_ , and he really couldn’t spare enough neurons for resentment.

“Got it,” the doctor mumbled, and the pain level ratcheted up.

Dean’s hand was in his hair, stroking his head like he was a toddler. Sam was totally going to be mad about that, too, once they were out of the hospital and safe in some motel room somewhere. And he was also totally going to stop pushing his head up into the comforting touch.

Totally.

The doctor started to pull out the bullet. Sam winced, turning away and squeezing his eyes shut.

“Easy, kiddo.” Dean’s hand didn’t still its gentle motion. “We’re almost done. Maybe this’ll teach you not to be a self-sacrificing idiot.”

“There.” That was the doctor’s voice. Sam heard something clink into a tray. “Huh. That’s… I’ve never seen anything like that before. Well. Not like I have to pull bullets out of people very often, but…”

“Shootout,” Dean lied easily. Well, maybe it wasn’t _technically_ a lie. There had been guns and shots had been fired. “Guy had a thing for ancient weaponry.”

“Have you filed a report?”

“Bureau’ll handle it.” Sam winced again when the doctor dabbed his back with something that stung. Dean squeezed the back of his neck. “It’s OK, Sammy, I’ve got you. I’m right here. Go easy on him, doc, he’s had a rough day.”

“You’re… partners?” the doctor asked, and Sam just _knew_ she was raising her eyebrow.

Dean laughed. “Yeah. We’ve been partners since he joined the Bureau. But Sam’s my kid brother, too. Works under a different name so the bad guys don’t figure it out and use us against each other.”

“Oh… Must’ve been hard to see him get hurt.”

“You have no idea.” Dean shifted, leaning forward, and the next words were whispered. “He jumped in front of a gun that was aimed at me. _Idiot._ ”

“That’s one way of looking at it.” The doctor pressed the gauze pad down. Dean rubbed Sam’s head to distract him. “We don’t all have people who are willing to take a bullet for us. You’re a lucky man, Agent Adams.”

“Yeah. I know.” Dean’s voice was suddenly trembling, fingers tightening in Sam’s hair almost to the point of pain. “ _Believe_ me, I know.”

Sam shook his head. He was far too tired to talk. But he couldn’t help thinking, as he reflected on the events of the past few days, as he listened to the familiar cadence of Dean’s voice and allowed himself to be calmed by the hand on his head and the knowledge that Dean would still be there in the morning, that he was every bit as lucky as his big brother was.

 

* * *

**  
THE END   
**


End file.
